The Potions Master of Azkaban
by Magical Maeve
Summary: Severus Snape languishes in Azkaban, a punishment for his deeds and misdeeds. His life seems destined to end in torturous misery, until one of his gaolers finds herself strangely compelled to help him.
1. Stone Walls Do Not a Prison Make

Stone Walls Do Not a Prison Make.

He mumbled to himself a lot in a low, discontented voice during the first few weeks of his time here. I would watch him through the peephole, pacing his cell in an endless journey of torment. His black hair had started to streak with grey and it made him look even older than his forty-one years. He was thin when he came in, but grew painfully so soon after his arrival. His tattered robes hung from his lean frame, like a flag with no wind behind it. I tried to bring him food that he would eat, tried to do the same for them all, but the pickings here at Azkaban are slim and all the food has a dull grey appearance that would turn even a rat away. I wasn't even sure if it would make any difference, what use is a feast when all you feel in your heart is famine? I think the Ministry would rather the prisoners all starved to death, to save us the bother of guarding them.

When he came in, I was fresh at my job and he was just another prisoner, although a particularly notorious one, and I had no strong feelings towards him either way. But a broken man always elicits sympathy of some kind eventually, no matter what his crimes, and Severus Snape was a broken man. His chin rarely rose from its defeated position on his chest and I think it was fortunate that no sunlight pierced his cell, for the brightness might have finished him off completely. He did not speak, or ask for anything, or anyone. I was not privy to his thoughts at that time, but given the moans and cries of terror he emitted during his short and fitful periods of sleep, I think that was no bad thing.

I doubt he was ever handsome — his nose is too prominent and his cheeks to sallow for beauty — but nevertheless, there is a compelling quality about his face. Perhaps it is those eyes that must once have been stern and full of vigour. They were empty then, staring dully at a floor he grew to know intimately. My own well-fed body must have insulted him whenever I walked into the cell. Shining hair and healthy eyes have no place on this rock of decay, but I cannot help being what I am. Perhaps he thought I came to flaunt my vitality, and that is why he kept his eyes averted.

Time knows no beginning or end. Days pass by unnoticed as the moon is chased from the sky by the sun in a never-ending cycle that the inmates no longer see or care about. Even their gaolers, myself included, see little daylight, as we all cling to this grey rock that is whipped by the relentless sea and wind. The dank chill of this place does not differentiate between the saints and the sinners; we all suffer, only some of us are decently fed and have a soft bed to go to at night instead of the unwelcoming, dirty mattresses that the prisoners sleep on. They wake to despair, and know that that is the best they will feel all day. I am glad we only have to stay here for six months before being moved to other duties. I think our sanity would be compromised if we had to stay much longer.

I've been here five and a half months now and my time is nearly up. I have served my time, and will be moving on to other duties back in a world that knows comfort and daylight. I arrived on the same day as Severus Snape. Perhaps that is why I feel a solidarity with him that would get me moved elsewhere if the authorities knew about it. Not that they have cause to worry; feeling solidarity with a prisoner is one thing, but this prisoner does not want solidarity, merely solitude. But then, in my time as a Hit-Wizard, my views on many things have changed to the point that they would concern the Ministry. I could walk away, but you can't change things if you don't know what needs changing. With the fall of Voldemort and the subsequent rise in petty and vindictive crime, the Ministry are acting as if the Dark Wizard were still around. They are using a colossal sledgehammer to crack the proverbial nut and it sometimes sickens me.

My name, should you care to know it, is Katherine Carr. I'm too old to be in the first flush of youth, and too young to be here. I trained as a Hit-Wizard during the lull between Voldemort's first, premature, fall, and his recent, final one. When the Dementors left Azkaban, they left it to us; wizards that could scarcely be spared from the main fight against the Death Eaters. I spent a few years doing the normal things, escaping my stint here until the powers that be decided I was old enough to listen to the torturous screams and wails, day in and day out. They say the screams were worse when the Dementors stood guard and I can barely believe it is possible. There is one prisoner who occupies the cell above Snape's, and his screams will forever haunt this place. Jacob Frith, who is a gaoler on that floor, says this prisoner suffers terrible claustrophobia and when they extinguish the lights at night his torment is absolute.

And still the days passed. One morning I saved the orange I had at breakfast and smuggled it into Snape's cell beneath my robe, thinking all the time that if I passed a colleague they would be able to smell the vibrant citrus tang of life in the midst of such rot. Fortunately I met no one and was able to reach his cell with my precious cargo intact. Fresh fruit is rare and rationed here at Azkaban; we are lucky to see one or two pieces a week for our personal consumption. The prisoners, needless to say, receive nothing but the tasteless gruel that sustains them on the watershed between starvation and a life lived in permanent hunger. Why I was moved to this act of kindness, I will never know; perhaps it was a failing on my part rather than kindness.

He was not pacing when I pushed open the heavy door, but sitting, head slumped, at the small desk that was standard in most cells. One desk, one chair, a pot for a toilet, and the pallet that they slept on was the sum total of each cell's furnishings, and if a prisoner damaged any of this then they would not get a replacement. I bade him a good morning, foolishly, for he did not know the difference between the bright glare of morning and the blessed shade of night. He did not respond, as was usual, and I placed the chipped bowl of slop onto his desk, brushing his hair slightly with my knuckles as I did so. He raised his head only a little and for a moment I thought he was going to speak, but he took in the shallow bowl that had been placed before him and allowed his head to sink again.

"I brought you something else," I said, in as low a voice as I could manage and still make sure he heard me. "I have no need of it and thought perhaps you would care for it."

I pulled the dimpled fruit from the green folds of my robe and placed it next to the bowl. It was as if the sun had come out in the darkness. The orange was so bright and so perfect in the sickness of that room that it almost hurt my eyes to see it. The smell must have reached his nostrils, for he raised his head again and looked with disdain at my small offering. Again, I thought he was going to speak but, again, he did not. His eyes looked up and reached for mine, sorrow beyond measure spilling from them as I held his gaze. And that was it. It was a contact of sorts, for he had never before looked me directly in the eye. The small lurch of fear, sorrow and pity that I felt at beholding those dark, unfathomable seas of black was almost palpable and it was I who broke the gaze first.

His hand reached out and it appeared he was about to take the fruit, but in a slow, deliberate movement he pushed it from the desk and ignored it as it rolled away from him to lodge in the grime at the end of his pallet. With his other hand he felt for the bowl, and pushed that too from the table. I watched as it fell, spilling the runny liquid in its wake. As it smashed on the floor it made little sound, being made from cheap clay, and I was already wondering how I could possibly disguise the transgression and keep my use of magic concealed. I could feel his eyes on me as I bent to pick up the pieces, they burnt into my back and I wanted to turn but did not. My hand tightened around my wand that was still safely tucked into my robe and I mended the broken shards of bowl, clearing up the spilled gruel while I was at it. If the extra magic were detected I would have to lie and say it was I that had broken the bowl.

"You will help no one, least of all yourself, with pointless defiance like that." I held the bowl and reached down for the orange. "You may not want this," I said, indicating the bowl, "but you would be a fool to turn away the fruit. I will leave it with you."

I emptied the stinking pot with a spell devised for just such use and nodded towards his blank face as I left the cell. My heart was heavy as I reached the kitchens and tipped the contents of the bowl into the sink, placing it with the rest of the dirty dishes that would be left for the prisoners who worked in the kitchens to clear away. This was another thing that galled me, the way they used prisoners for all the menial tasks. Only low-risk people were used, for obvious reasons, but they were made to work all hours of the day and night, without magic, to keep the castle ticking over. They accomplished more than any house-elf would have done, and all without the use of magic. But I hid my sympathies well, or I tried to. It was not so easy where the prisoner in cell sixty-six was concerned.

Severus Snape was proving to be troublesome for my peace of mind. Could it be that, even then, I thought he was innocent? I had taken his file from the governor's office a few days after my arrival and had pored over it with some considerable interest. Severus Snape was, after all, a very interesting man. He had been born to a Muggle and a witch in 1959, brought up in a poor area of northern England in a town populated almost exclusively by Muggles. From there he had gone to Hogwarts and proved to be an adept student, adept but friendless. Charmed by the glamour of a life lived on the Dark side, he had become a Death Eater, but had renounced this lifestyle, or so it seemed. He had been brought before the Wizengamot and had been found not guilty. I read testimonies from Professor Dumbledore, the man whose murder he had finally been apprehended and charged over. It was clear from Dumbledore's words that he had believed in Snape, trusted him. So what had brought Severus Snape to the point of killing his own mentor?

There had been a photograph with the file, a photograph that was so unlike the unresponsive creature that now inhabited cell number sixty-six it was hard to believe they were one and the same man. The hair was black, black as the wet rocks that the fortress Azkaban stands on, and his eyes had been unexpectedly clear, if cold. Pride and self-confidence poured from his countenance and I think that is when I first began to feel sympathy for the man. All that pride, all that wisdom, for there must be wisdom there to have survived for so long as a spy for both Dumbledore and Voldemort, going to waste in the heart of Azkaban.

I had returned the file, but only after making a copy for myself. And then I went back to trying to unlock the door to the man that was my prisoner. All men can be picked for their secrets and sorrows, if you can find the right combination, but some would always be trickier than others. Severus proved to be the trickiest I had ever encountered.

When I went back to his cell, on the evening after I had presented him with the orange, I could smell it. Not the confined, subdued faintness, but a huge, demanding odour that signified an orange well eaten. He was lying on his pallet with his face to the wall and I once again emptied the pot, wishing I could find other menial tasks to detain me, but there is nothing constructive to be found in an almost empty cell.

"Thank you," I said, preparing to take my leave. I opened the door and lifted my skirts slightly to avoid the pool of dampness that collected in the dip between cell and corridor; nothing at Azkaban was a snug fit, except for the locks and their keys.

I didn't recognise the rasp as a voice at first and merely thought he had coughed. Still, it was enough to keep me a moment longer as I paused, about to ask after his health.

"For what?" The repeated words were scratches, ground into the air around us with reluctance.

I was ridiculously pleased to have drawn even two words from him, and stepped back into the cell, closing the door.

"For not wasting the fruit," I replied. "For it would have been a great shame, and one I would not easily have forgiven you for."

"I hate waste," he said, his voice still harsh from disuse.

"Then that makes two of us," I said, eager to prolong the conversation. It was hard to tell what the proper timbre of his voice was with the flakes of dryness disguising its true note. "Perhaps you would like some more, when I can get it."

"Do not seek to deprive yourself." He coughed, and this time it was a real cough, hard and rough.

"It would be no deprivation, not compared to your own."

And there the conversation ended. He did not speak again that night and I left him, feeling myself on the horns of a dilemma. To seek out the company of a prisoner, to in any way encourage conversation, was strictly forbidden, and yet there was something about him that made me want him to speak with me. I felt he had much to share, much to impart.

Several days passed before I had the chance to secrete an item of food on my person and once again make my way to that drear cell. It was a Saturday, although nothing marks out a weekend as being in any way different from the equally long and fruitless days of midweek. His cough had worsened considerably in the time between that illicit orange and this dog-end day, and I confess to being somewhat concerned. It would be extremely difficult to bring in any sort of Potion to this forsaken place, not without getting caught at any rate.

He was once again slumped over his table, his breath coming deceptively gentle in its shallowness.

I closed the door on any unwelcome ears that might be around before I spoke. "Mr Snape," I said, announcing my arrival more formally than was necessary, or even permitted, "I have something for you."

He did not move, but I felt there was a fracture in the rhythm of his breathing.

"Are you unwell?" I asked, moving closer, the peach that lodged in my pocket forgotten for the time being. "Your chest sounds rougher today."

"Leave me."

"You must eat," I insisted, putting down the bowl of gruel by him, in the cruel routine that we had both become accustomed to. "You will fade to nothing if you refuse even this, inadequate though it is."

"Leave me." The words, repeated, added weight to their meaning.

"I'm concerned about your chest," I said, holding my ground.

He raised his head then, and it cost him considerable effort to do so.

"Save your concern for those that are deserving of it." He struggled to speak against the tide of moisture that clogged his lungs. "And leave me."

"I cannot leave you in this state. There must be something I can do."

"You are my guard, not my guardian." His speech gave way to a fit of coughing so heavy and prolonged that I thought it would never end. The air was chilled with salt damp and I didn't wonder that he had a coldness on his chest. It was just a matter of time before we all succumbed to some sort of malady. And, with that thought, I had my answer. He could not go to the healer that visited the fortress just once a week, but I could.

"Very well," I said, eager to put my plan into action. "But you may find these rations more palatable than the gruel." I placed the fruit on the table and felt its softness beneath my fingers. There was nothing to match the peach's tenderness in this place, and I just hoped he would find some comfort in it. "But you can be sure, Mr Snape, that I will come back and be better prepared to treat your ailment."

My hand was on my keys and I was about to open the door.

"Professor."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"It is _Professor_ Snape."

"Thank you for the reminder, Professor Snape." I enjoyed that moment. It gave him some dignity to be referred to by his old title, and when you have lost everything else, dignity is all that remains.

Closing the door without making it bang against its frame is no mean feat, but I managed it that day and hastened myself to finish my morning chores before slipping from the fortress to parade on the pathway that skirted its seat. If I braved enough sleet and rain I could well bring myself to the point where I would convince even the best healer that I was sickening for something.

And if I didn't, Professor Snape would go without his Potion and possibly sicken even further.

And still I didn't know why I cared.


	2. A Time To Live

A Time To Live

I have often thought that life is a tragic riddle to be fussed and fretted over. We try to tease its secrets from the tangled mass of clues we are given, and we usually emerge none the wiser. Only a lucky few, or unlucky, if you prefer, are gifted with the ability to wrench meaning from the impenetrable words and chapters of our lives.

From reading his file it became clear to me that Severus Snape was just such a man. On paper it appeared that he had managed to dissect his life, to mould various aspects of himself into different creations. It seemed he understood his reason for being here. It was hard to say when it had all begun to unravel. If you pressed me for an answer, I would have to say it started when he killed Dumbledore. There was much more to that particular piece of the story than was revealed in the file. I couldn't help but think that the only person who could fully answer my questions was the deadened soul of Severus Snape himself.

Of the fact that he had done some thoroughly iniquitous things, there could be no doubt. But even the worst wickedness always begins with a solitary misdeed. I wondered when he had first fallen; indeed, I have been wondering since I first met him. Why do certain people affect us, while others leave us unmoved? I could not answer that if I tried. I simply know that there was something about this man that spoke to me, despite my knowledge that he had killed and killed again. Are murderers to be pitied? Can they ever achieve redemption? Had he already been redeemed, and was there more to the murder of Albus Dumbledore than met the eye? I remember when it happened. There had been talk at the Ministry of his then wife creating a fuss about his innocence, but wives always believe their husbands are not guilty. Still, it gave me much food for thought at the time.

My plans to catch a cold succeeded, but whether it was from my lonely walks in the wet wind, giving away my only source of vitamin C, or the close proximity to one already suffering, I could not tell. Needless to say, on the day of the Healer's visit I was able to present myself with a suitably convincing cough, and red, rheumy eyes. I knew I was treading a very fine line between being fit for work and being taken off the island to recover from my minor illness, but as a Hit-Wizard you learn to adapt well to get the best possible outcome from a situation.

Fortunately, the Healer that day was new, and I was able to use all the persuasiveness I had in my arsenal to convince him that all I needed to continue my work was his strongest Pepperup Potion and something to shift the non-existent heaviness that I insisted had invaded my chest. With several vials, (after all, it would be a week before he returned) I left his makeshift surgery and rested for a few hours before my watch began.

Eamon Talbot was waiting for me at the end of corridor C with the keys jangling by his side, ready to hand them over and disappear to his own bed. I liked Eamon, but he could be tiresome sometimes. His dedication to the job knew no bounds, and I wondered how he would manage when he finally left the rigid structure of Azkaban. He looked at my watering eyes and red-rubbed nose with irritation. I could see the thought that he would have to work a double-shift dance behind his eyes.

"Are you sure you're up to the night watch?" he asked.

"More than up to it," I replied indignantly, but not without a slight snuffle. There was a hint, just a whisper, which ran round the fortress, insinuating that I might be less well equipped for this job because of my sex. A hint, I might add, that I was quick to dispel at every opportunity. "Is there anything I need to be made aware of?"

As was usual we exchanged a brief, verbal hand-over of the prisoners.

"The fellow in sixty is restless tonight, that Shunpike. He keeps protesting his innocence and calling for his mother to save him. Chap in fifty-two, he's thrown his chair against the door. I've told him it will be cleared away in the morning and he'd better get used to sitting in the floor from now on. Apart from that, it's all quiet."

I nodded and asked if he was sure that was all. When Eamon replied that it was, I took the keys from him and prepared to bid him goodnight. As he was about to take his leave he stopped, as if remembering something that he must have originally deemed insignificant.

"You might want to keep an eye on Snape in sixty-six. He's sinking fast. With any luck, he will be one less to worry about by morning."

My lips pressed together to prevent me from making a reply I might regret. I was often appalled at the callousness of Eamon, and of my other colleagues. They had forgotten that the Ministry's misdeeds and incompetence had, on more than one occasion, resulted in innocent men and women being sent here. I granted all the prisoners a degree of respect, no matter what the charges laid against them were.

This makes me sound like a young idealist, and I am far from that. I know that Azkaban contains some thoroughly objectionable, dangerous inhabitants. Another of my charges, Lucius Malfoy, is in for his second stretch within these walls. He has lost much of his gloss and glamour, constantly bemoaning his lot in the world. He is one prisoner I would never consciously turn my back on. There is lust in his eyes, lust for everything he has lost, including the feel of a woman's flesh. For an imprisoned man, there can be nothing more painful than remembrances of better times, and I believe these memories may well push Mr Malfoy over the edge of what his sanity can endure.

But it is in this respectful state of mind that I approach my duties, and perhaps this made it inevitable that I would one day be made vulnerable by a prisoner. They do say that prison makes the incarcerated susceptible, but I believe it also makes the warders so.

I had no gifts of food that night, no scraps from my meagre table. But if Eamon were right, then Professor Snape would be in no position to benefit from any windfalls I had to offer. I quickly walked the corridor, opening peepholes and making sure all was quiet. It was ten o'clock and most of them had fallen into the clutches of an uneasy sleep. Only a few remained awake, stumbling around in the darkness of their cells.

As I opened the peephole to cell sixty-six, I seemed to be gazing into the blackest hole imaginable. Nothing penetrated the blanket of darkness that had tucked itself around his cell. The corridors were only dimly lit, and I knew if I were to accomplish anything that night I would need to use my wand. Wandlight was permitted on the night watch, but the powers that be knew if it was used for any unusual lengths of time, so I was aware I would need to be swift in my actions. The door emitted a low, embittered creak as I pushed it inward, once again avoiding the pool of water at its base. I closed it quickly, listening with unease to the laboured sounds of life that came from the floor in the corner. I allowed my wand to illuminate the place with the softest glow I could manage. A gentle light was cast throughout the cell, one that would have made shadows dance, had there been anything living to interrupt the light.

I knelt to him, daring to place my hand on his forbidden shoulder.

"Professor Snape?" My voice was not forceful, just a low whisper to make his waking as easy as I could. His spirit was restless in sleep and murmured muddled, shy words that tripped over each other, making no sense. "Please, Professor Snape. I have something to ease your sickness."

He rolled a little, a lunatic dream forcing movement where there was normally stillness and defeat. Without warning his eyes opened to a different madness than the one he had been seeing in his nightmares. To me, it seemed that they were weeping without the need for tears and I could once again sense great sorrow, something beyond that which had brought him to Azkaban.

"You again," he mouthed, testing my ability to withstand his contemptuous manner.

"Yes," I agreed, "it's me again. I've something here to ease your cough."

He turned his face to the wall and pulled the thin, patchy blanket around his crumbling shoulders tightly, as if to ward off the terrors of the night.

"Go away and leave me to my end, woman." The words were firmly spoken, but not harsh. They formed a heartfelt entreaty, a plea to leave him to his suffering.

"I will not," I answered with feeling. "I have gone to considerable trouble to obtain these potions, and you will take them."

"I did not ask for your trouble."

"No, that you did not. But I gave it in any case."

I pulled the first of the vials from my pocket and, reaching across, I turned his head back to me, not expecting him to have the strength left to resist. I was wrong. One of his hands shot free from the grubby blanket and gripped my wrist so tightly I feared the bones might snap under the pressure. He raised himself up, face contorted with effort. His dry lips parted and briefly, so briefly, those black eyes flamed at me with real anger.

"Let me be, woman, and stop this infernal torment. Leave me to die and we will all be the happier for it."

"I will not," I said. "No one will die on my watch."

"Then do me the courtesy of guarding over your other charity cases, and allow me to die when you have concluded your shift." His head slumped again and he grunted a little as the pain of the exertion bit.

"I'm not leaving you until you take this," I insisted.

"Must you argue at every turn?" he groaned. "You remind me of…" And then the worst hurt I have ever seen on any suffering soul rose up and conquered his face. I wanted to turn away and allow him the dignity of his pain, but the cough rattled from his chest again, chasing away the mental ache with one more physical and more immediate.

"You must drink this." I flicked the cork from the top of the vial with my thumbnail and raised it to his lips, taking advantage of his sudden incapacity. He reached for me again then, I believe without even realising he did so. He sought comfort from the memories, just as they all did eventually. I don't think he was even aware of what I was doing, as I dripped the potion into his unwary mouth. A good portion of it reached the back of his throat, although his half-hearted protestation sent some spilling down his cheek. It was as if a balm of the sweetest vervain had dripped into his lungs. Instantly the rattle stopped, and his breathing ceased its extraordinary labour. As his head relaxed back, I took advantage of this lapse in his concentration to tip the Pepperup Potion after the first. I watched just long enough to see the relief settle on his face, creases of torment easing as the Healer's medicines brought some relief, I suspect there was a sleeping agent in the first, for his eyelids became heavy. His hand began to loosen on my robes and I removed it, placing it gently over the stinking bedclothes. Touching my wand I whispered, "_Scourgify_." The blankets became clean, the smell of death and mould leaving them in an instant.

"You know not what you have done to me," he said, directing his speech to me via the wall. Already he sounded stronger, despite the sleep that was rapidly descending around him. "You would have served me better by leaving me to die in my own time, not yours. This was not your decision to make."

"Goodnight, Professor Snape," I said, ignoring his admonitions. "I will call again and see you before I leave in the morning."

"Don't bother," he growled. "You have done enough damage this night."

"I have merely made you comfortable."

He fought against the draught I had given him long enough to raise himself up again and look at me with odium. "You think a clean blanket and a clear chest will help me? I want to die, don't you understand that? Reminding me that once I slept in fresh bed sheets only sharpens the pain as it writhes around me. You cannot help me."

And he fell again, this time giving in to the release of a lifeless sleep that would countenance no cries and no thrashing around with restless limbs. I turned to go, wondering if there was some truth in what he had said. Perhaps sometimes life is too painful to be lived. Had he lost something so precious, so essential to his life, that he truly felt he could not go on?

I opened the door, feeling something hard beneath my foot. I dropped to pick it up and realised that it was a peach stone. Closing my hand around it, I knew that I was doing the right thing. I just hoped that he would come to realise this. Come to realise that life is always worth living, no matter what suffering is laid upon you. I should know. I lost my own family to Voldemort, and killed to save myself. And yet here I am, disguised as a person with no troubles. Am I saving him because I could not save my own kin? Strangely, the thought disturbed me and haunted me for the rest of the night.

I knew by my watch that it was seven o'clock. Outside the sun would be starting its cheerful journey to set the moon to bed. Eamon would be with me soon and I needed to check on my prisoner one last time. He was still sleeping, as I lit his morning candle, and he did not stir when I bade him good morning and left him to the rest of his sleep.

I informed Eamon that the prisoner was much improved. and he raised an eyebrow of surprise. "Strange things happen in this place," was his only comment as he took the keys. "Have a restful sleep."

"Oh, you can be sure of it," I said, stepping through the wrought iron gate at the end of the corridor. And I knew I would find a sleep as restless as Professor Snape's had been restful.

How strange life is that it will give and take with such ease, exchanging one person's suffering for another's.

As I removed my clothes and placed my thick, woollen nightgown over my head, something that was essential if I was to survive the cold of my room — my nights of silk nightwear were long gone — I saw my parents and my elder brother as they died. I felt the familiar rise and fall of bile, and I was thankful that Voldemort was finally defeated; that the Death Eater who had been responsible for my family's deaths was dead too. Bellatrix Black would be a stain on my memory forever, but at least I need not concern myself with thoughts of revenge.

Sleep did not claim me, as I had expected. I spent my resting hours pondering over the puzzle that was Severus Snape, and what my next step would be in my attempt to reach him.


	3. Blood From a Stone

Blood From a Stone.

I woke that evening and felt much worse than when I had retired to bed. My cold had worsened and, coupled with lack of sleep, left me feeling ill-disposed to my work. It took me much longer to dress, and I could feel the weight of my bones as I did so. On the dot of six, my breakfast appeared, if a meal at such a late hour could be so termed. It was brought to me by one of the prisoners, a young girl called Harriet who was in Azkaban for the theft of a broomstick. Unfortunately for her, it belonged to the niece of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and no one listened to the girl's pleas that she was on her way to St. Mungo's, where her sick grandfather was in a poor way. So here she was, poor child. She wasn't much over sixteen.

I was pleased with the presence of an apple on the tray, and it immediately joined the two vials of potion in my pocket. I sneezed over the toast and scrambled eggs, eating very little. My throat protested at even the smallest morsel.

Corridor C was an unwelcome destination that night. I made my way there wearily, wondering what would await me. Eamon was not on duty, and instead I was faced with the leering mass that was Simeon Thorpe. He was a broad-shouldered, intimidating man with a penchant for dealing out punishments, even when none was deserved. I knew I would find at least one prisoner with an extra bruise that night. His flat face appraised me, as if weighing up my sickness and suitability to work. He grunted, which evidently meant he had decided I would do. The keys were thrown at me, forcing me to reach out an aching arm to catch them, and he growled something that I could barely understand before lumbering from the corridor. In his haste to get away he did not hand over in the practical way that Eamon did, and I was left to perform an extra vigilant first round of the cells. Fortunately, I found nothing amiss. Nothing, that is, until I reached sixty-six.

With my wand lit, I could see Professor Snape huddling against the wall, sitting on his pallet with the now clean blanket covering his rake of a body. It seemed he was trying to blend into the dark stone in an attempt to make himself disappear from this life. Even in the dim light that came from my wand I could see the welt that rose from his neck, reaching up to his temple and crawling away into his hairline in some kind of disgrace. I knew then that he had felt the brunt of Simeon's frustration. Some warders found it easier than others to be here. Simeon was not one of them.

I had no salve for that particular injury and instead crouched down by him to examine his wound more closely. The look he gave me was blank, and I believed he really could not see me, lost as he was in another world. It was only when I spoke, did I recall him from his mental meanderings.

"I have brought you more medicine for your cough. Although I can do nothing for that," I said, indicating the livid scarring.

"Go away."

"Your attitude does you no favours, Professor," I replied. "I'm here, and I am not going to go away, so you may as well work with me rather than against me."

"Can you bring me one of those," he nodded to the vial, "that will end my life?"

"No, you know I can't do that." I could feel his reluctance to even draw a breath and was so sure, at that moment, that if he could have simply stopped breathing and allowed his life to slip from his body, he would have.

"Then enough is enough. Please let me be." In profile I could see the strength of character that once ruled the man, and I wondered if he would ever hold his head high again.

I took the vials and apple from my pocket and placed them by me on the floor. I could hear that his breathing had returned to normal, and there was little sign of the illness that had threatened to steal his life away just twenty-four hours ago. But even so, it would be well that he took the remainder of the medicine, lest the creeping cold allow the illness to re-surface.

I kept my voice low as I entreated him to take the rest of the potion. A cough broke into my speech, and I turned my head away to prevent the germs from reaching him. Turning back, I picked up the first vial and offered it to him. Those cold, black eyes focused on me and hesitated, flickering at me with flinty uncertainty.

"I have no need of it now," he said, his teeth clenched against any false impression of concern on his part. "You appear more in need of it than I."

"I sleep in restful quarters with warm bedclothes and some comfort. If I sicken any more they will remove me from the island and get me medical treatment. Should the same happen to you, you will be left to die. You may wish for death, Professor Snape, but when it comes to the moment, when you feel your last heartbeat and realise that you have crossed the Rubicon, what will your head speak of to you? Will it congratulate you on making a wise choice, or will it berate you for your foolishness?" I paused to allow another fit of coughing to pass me by and he did not remove his gaze from my face. "Nothing in life is ever certain and all things pass eventually. Do you want your last moments to be spent in dank and desultory ignominy on this cruel piece of rock?"

"It will happen sooner or later. I think it would be prudent to wish for it to be sooner, don't you?"

"There is always hope, Professor Snape. This may not be the end."

Perhaps it was my imagination, or perhaps I just willed the look of regret that crossed his wasted face.

"Nevertheless," he began, changing the subject back to where we had been, "you would be doing yourself a disservice if you did not take something for your cold."

"I will find some rudimentary herbs in the kitchens that will bring me relief. I want to you to take the rest of this." I held out the sparkling glass and waited, hoping for some movement.

He freed himself from his supporting wall and reached out a hand. "You know, this is not the best potion I have ever had the misfortune to take." He pulled the stopper out of the top with practised hands and paused for a moment, as if savouring the feel of things he once touched on a daily basis, before his world had evaporated in a cauldron of Dark magic. "Your Healer must be young and inexperienced, or they would not have added quite so much Lungwort." Tipping back his head in a swift movement, he drank the potion and shuddered.

I took the empty vial back and handed him the remaining Pepperup Potion, but this time he insisted that he would not take it. He lifted the vial from my grip and looked at me sternly.

"You only need take that vile concoction once," he insisted. "You will take it or I will smash it to the ground."

We faced each other, crouched against the corner of that forsaken cell, and waited for one of us to give in. When he raised his hand, with the vial clenched in his fist, I knew he was completely serious about breaking it, and I allowed him to win this one small skirmish. I nodded and he removed the top, handing it back to me.

"Drink," he instructed.

The taste scorched my taste buds, making me only too happy to wash away the tang with the glass of stale water that sat on his table. I immediately re-filled it using my wand and moved across to where the smell of the chamberpot was almost overpowering, guessing that Simeon had done nothing with it all day. I waved my wand and emptied it. Really, these conditions were beyond belief. Once back in London I intended to make my feelings clear to the Ministry. I doubted anyone would care too much though. These prisoners did not have a good standing with the public at large, even the minor offenders, and there would be little support for them. My days as a Hit-Wizard were coming to an end, even then I was sure of it. I had seen enough, done enough, to know that this life was no longer for me. If I could take what I had learned and at least turn it into something helpful, then perhaps I could make sense of things.

"Is there anything else I can try and obtain for you?" I asked, knowing the answer would be a resounding no.

"You can get yourself from my sight," he said bitterly. "And hide that hair. It is… too much."

His earlier concern over my health was quickly re-buried, and I was left to touch the russet strands of hair that fell to my shoulders, not knowing what he could mean. I was itching to use my wand to heal his cut, but healing magic would have been detected immediately and I knew it was impossible. The need to do something, anything, was overpowering so with a quick flick of my wand I re-lit the candle, lending a comfort to the room that would last after my lit wand had gone. They could not detect lit candles after dark, that much I knew.

He raised his head angrily and sprang to his feet, crossing the few feet of cell with a litheness that would have been impossible for him yesterday. Reaching two fingers to his mouth, he wet them with his tongue and extinguished the flame. "I prefer the dark," he snarled, before returning to his misshapen bed.

I slipped from the cell hurriedly, pondering on his comment about my hair, and resolved to send an owl to my old friend Sarah Mompesson, to see if she could acquire some back issues of the _Daily Prophet_ for me. I would find out more about this man if it killed me, and, as I coughed harshly against the night, I realised it probably would.

One day slipped into the other, like a hand into a well-worn glove. Professor Snape's health had improved considerably, but his temper did not. He remained surly and withdrawn, despite my best efforts to beseech him to talk. But still, on occasion, he let his guard fall just a little and I saw a resurgence of the pain that dogged his days. Fruit still found its way into his cell, and was consumed there, although neither of us mentioned it any longer. I sensed, eventually, that his pain was becoming over-shadowed by the realisation that he had nothing with which to occupy his mind. He would have a fight on his hands to deal with the way that the hours stretched out, longer here than anywhere else. The prisoners may have had very little in the way of comfort or possessions, but the one thing that they did have was an over-abundance of time.

This was something I could partially solve, but at great potential cost to myself. We were allowed our own personal effects with us for the duration of our stay on the rock, and I had brought with me quite a library of books to while away the long hours in between my active work. I was sure that Professor Snape would appreciate one or two carefully chosen volumes, but I would need to be very careful about bringing them to him. And if he chose to be difficult, leaving them in an open place for other warders to find, I would be in serious trouble. It's one thing, wanting to walk away from the job, but I want to do it in my own time. Could I honestly say that this relative stranger was worth the risk? Was I taking the risk for him or for myself?

Our training had been vigorous. First they had dealt with the physical and then the mental; hours and hours of constant re-enforcement that the criminals were the enemy and we, the force of good. I may not be an idealist now, but I was then. I wanted to fight the good fight and help rid our world of its various scourges. What a naïve fool I was not to see that one of the scourges consisted of the very people we were supposed to be helping. I have met, in the course of my work, some far more honourable criminals than my superiors. So I am tainted by what I have seen; hardened to suffering, yes, willing to see the guilty punished, certainly, but not at the expense of my own sense of what is right and wrong. And keeping them in the filth of Azkaban was wrong. Beating them for whatever reason was wrong. The more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that helping Professor Snape was a way of salving my own heavy conscience until I could actively try and do something about it.

So I knelt by my rough bookshelves, looking at titles and trying to decide what he would like to read. _Coughlin's Theory of Magical Irrelativity_ seemed a little on the heavy side, as did _An Expansive History of Time._ I had struggled to read them myself and had brought them thinking that the lack of other distractions would help me immerse myself in them. I had been wrong, for they are still unread. _Challenging Logic: A Wizard's Guide _seemed promising, as did _1001 Arithmancy Puzzles: the Devilishly Advanced Edition, _(a Christmas present from a well-meaning friend several years ago, but I have no head for intricate mathematics). I decided on the latter, as it was a slim volume and would be easily hidden.

On the night shift it was easier to conceal things, but I was now on days and would have to be careful. There was something about this act that was so final. Giving a prisoner extra rations could be deemed a health issue, although it was still a punishable offence, but giving them something for recreational purposes would mean instant dismissal.

As I made my way to corridor C, the book nestled uncomfortably between my robes and shirt. By the time I took the keys from Eamon it had become a literal thorn in my side. The fortress groaned under the weight of a late November snowfall, blizzards bringing fresh coverings in on a daily basis. A cutting blast of ice lived in the wind that howled through Azkaban. It crept up beneath the very rock that the fortress was built upon, screeching through deep fissures in the walls to blast its way through any door that was opened. I had taken to wearing an extra layer beneath my normal clothes, but even that could not keep away the penetrating cold that ate into the very core of my body. On more than one occasion I had felt as if I would never be warm again.

Shunpike was having a bad day so I spent a few extra minutes with him. He wanted to write to his mother, which was forbidden, because visits had been restricted to one a month, and he was desperately missing the contact with home. I couldn't promise him anything, but offered to try and send her word that he was well, a lie in itself. He seemed happy with that, so I was able to leave him and make my way to the other cells. It was a wearying walk, opening and closing doors on despair and sorrow. I finally reached sixty-six and unlocked it, stepping into the now-familiar darkness of his existence.

"Oh, how uplifting," he said sarcastically. "My favourite tormentor is here once again."

"Good morning to you, too." I made my voice light, emptying the pot before turning to him. Instead of lurking on his bed, he had now taken to sitting bolt upright on his chair with a look of expectancy on his face. I knew he wasn't expecting anything, but this was his way of fighting of his demons. He had, once more, taken on the aura of a teacher, and I felt the urge to hand in imaginary homework as I looked into his stern eyes.

"Were you a popular teacher?" I asked, wondering if it was just Azkaban that had made him so taciturn.

"Of course not," he replied. "My job was not to be popular. I was a teacher." He looked at me as if I was an imbecile.

"I had some nice teachers," I began, but he cut into my flight of memory.

"Spare me the details," he hissed. "They obviously never taught you to know your place."

I laughed at that, puncturing his balloon of self-righteous pomposity with a needle of amusement. "That's rich," I grinned, "coming from you."

"Oh, go on with your rounds. You're clouding my air with your idle chatter."

"I actually brought you something, but I'm not sure I'll bother giving it to you now."

"If it's more fruit, you can keep it." Gratitude was clearly not one of his stronger points and I gave him a scowl that would rival one of his own.

"It isn't fruit." I was rewarded with a look of interest so fleeting that I thought the wind had chased it away.

"Then it will be something equally mundane," he said dismissively.

I stepped toward the table and lowered myself to his level, bringing my face very close to his own. He didn't move a muscle, trapping his instinctive desire to pull back within a vice of self-control. My nose was so close it was almost brushing his inordinately large one, and I opened the top of my robes to reach down the front of them. I kept my eyes on his, enjoying this small moment of power, for I could see his mind turn to thoughts of the flesh. In truth, I was a little flustered by my close proximity, even though I had instigated it. Professor Snape had an energy that surrounded him, one of latent power that was suggestive and potentially intoxicating.

Bringing my hand out from my robes, I smiled, setting the book on the table. It seemed we both chose the same moment to breathe again and I moved quickly, backing away from him.

"I need not tell you not to allow the other warders to see that," I said as I reached the door. "If they do, I will be moved from this corridor and probably Azkaban. Good day to you, Professor Snape."

"And what a blessing that would be to us all," he breathed, his eyes shifting away as he spoke.

Closing the door behind me, I steadied my breathing and prepared to check on sixty-seven. Did I really feel what I thought I had felt? Feelings that had been left un-stirred for many, many years had moved, and I wasn't sure I had enjoyed it.

When I returned to my room at the end of my shift, I was prepared to eat my dinner and read for a little while. I expected the knock at the door to be the arrival of my food, but when I opened it one of the young prisoner-helpers stood there with a package.

"For you, Miss," he said. "Came by owl this morning."

"Thank you," I replied, taking the brown paper packet and closing my door on the prisoner, who looked surprised to be thanked for anything, let alone the simple task of delivering mail.

As I tore open the paper I realised that Sarah had been true to her word. It had taken her a few weeks but she had amassed a significant number of back copies of the_ Daily Prophet_. Now I could finally try to get to the heart of what made Severus Snape the prisoner I had to deal with. It would be a long night of reading.


	4. Discoveries

Chapter Four

Discoveries

I had managed to stoke up a lazy fire in the tiny grate and, coupled with the warm robe I had wrapped around myself, I was able to keep myself warm as I sat on the worn sofa with the newspapers piled beside me. There must have been twenty at least, and the earliest one dated from June of this year. The headlines, as they always were in the _Daily Prophet_, were of a sensational nature and not to be taken at face value. But then, could anything be taken at face value? I supposed not. The first one I came across stated hysterically that 'Monster Apprehended in Violent Showdown at Diagon Alley' and I sighed with annoyance.

I skimmed over the headlines — they were most definitely unimportant and misleading — and tried to pick from the vast sea of words what was most noteworthy. It would appear that Professor Snape had spent a good six months on the run before finally being apprehended because of an act of betrayal from within the ranks of the Death Eaters. I gathered from the editorial that this was considered good fortune for the Ministry, as, up until then, he had successfully evaded any attempts to capture him. They had held him at the Ministry for a month before convening the Wizengamot to deal with him. I do not know why there was such a delay, for the newspaper seemed fairly convinced they had enough evidence, but delay there was.

They eventually passed a unanimous verdict of guilty and sentenced him to life in Azkaban. There had been some talk of execution, but the taste for such things had long gone since the Dementors had left, and the powers that be had decided against reviving this form of punishment, even for a case that seemed so appalling. It had even been said at the trial, by none other than Harry Potter himself, that Albus Dumbledore would not have wished for this punishment. And so Severus Snape came to us, after waiting for another month before arriving here. He was kept, during this time, at a smaller prison on the outskirts of Leicester, again, for no apparent reason. Perhaps they wanted to wear him down a little before he arrived in the hope that Azkaban would kill him sooner.

There were a few photographs that the _Prophet_ had managed to obtain prior to his crime, and one in particular interested me. It was a wedding photograph in which Professor Snape stood beside a smiling woman in front of a doorway that was decorated with flowers. The caption indicated that this was his wife, Maeve Snape, nee O'Malley, and that they had eventually gone on the run together after she had left her teaching position at Hogwarts. So far there had been no indication in any of the newspapers to explain what had happened to her. From the picture I could see why he found my red hair so offensive; his wife had hair of pure fire. I must have been a constant, washed-out reminder of what he had lost. She was very beautiful and even Professor Snape looked quite distinguished in the photograph, as he forced a smile for the camera. Her smile was wide and genuine, but I wondered if she knew about the spider that had alighted on her shoulder.

There was a lot of back story in the newspapers, much deliberation on his motives for killing Professor Dumbledore and the repercussions. Some mention was made of an Unbreakable Vow, but the woman who had tried to bring this to the attention of the Wizengamot seemed to have been hushed by the Ministry. Narcissa Malfoy was the wife of the prisoner I so disliked, and I wondered what the connection between her and Professor Snape had been. But even so, he should not have made the Unbreakable Vow had he not intended on fulfilling it. Had the evidence been submitted, it would have been discounted on that basis.

I moved on to the reports of his arrival here and the cheery headlines of the day. The general opinion was that such a dangerous, cruel criminal had finally been sent to the best place for him, a place where he could no longer threaten anyone. But nowhere in the many pages of newsprint was there a convincing explanation as to why he had killed a man who had believed in him when no one else would. It just didn't make sense.

The second to last paper seemed to contain nothing of relevance to my quest for information and I made my way to the middle pages without finding anything of merit. As I was about to turn another fruitless page, a small and familiar face caught my eye. Buried below a story about inferior wand smuggling was a picture of his wife. The small article mentioned that a body had been found and it was believed to be that of Maeve Snape, the wife of notorious murderer Severus Snape. It had been sent to St. Mungo's for identification purposes and the body would be released for burial as soon as a brief investigation had been conducted.

I folded the paper back up and placed it on top of the others. So that was the reason for his despair. His wife was dead. No doubt someone would have taken great delight in informing him of this fact. I was interrupted by a knock at the door and quickly swept up the newspapers and hid them beneath a cushion. Jane, one of the young prisoners who had been trusted with tasks, stood there with a very apologetic look on her face.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but Mr Thorp has taken sick on his watch and corridor C is unguarded. They are trying to get someone else to cover it but it looks like they mayn't. Could you come, Miss?" Her face was grimy in the dull light and there were several large scratches on her face that indicated she had been fighting with one of the other girls.

"Give me a moment, Jane. Who has the keys?" I stepped back inside to pull down my work robes.

"Malcolm does, ma'am. He's a bit fidgety, though. Dursen't like all them men being under his control." She looked a little fidgety herself as she moved nervously from one foot to the other.

"Well, I knew we were short-staffed, but putting the caretaker in charge of a corridor seems a desperate thing to do," I said, as I pulled my door closed behind me.

"There's a sickness going through all the corridors, ma'am. Something like the 'fluenza but worse. There's a lot come down with it. You'd best watch yourself too. Seems it might have been brought in by a prisoner."

I allowed myself a few moments of smug satisfaction at the prospect that the poor health-monitoring at the fortress had finally caused a widespread sickness. It was not a good position to be in, but it might make them more aware of the disadvantages of allowing prisoners' illnesses to rage unchecked. Following her back to my familiar workstation, I found Malcolm looking extremely worried indeed.

"Thank you, Mr Postlethwaite, I'll take those now." I relieved him of his key-shaped burden and he touched a work-bitten hand to his flat cap.

"Thank you, Miss. Sure, it's a bad state of affairs when a poor old man 'as to take care of them 'uns." He twitched his head back down the locked corridor and I nodded my agreement.

"I'm sorry," I said, apologising on behalf of the people who had allowed this state of affairs to flourish. "You can go back to your own duties now. I'll stay as long as need be."

My words were fine, but my body complained loudly at being asked to stay up well past my bedtime. Slipping the keys into the lock, I entered the corridor and walked swiftly up and down, checking the prisoners. There were rumblings of discontent and I knew they had sensed a shortage of manpower. Why else would I be back so soon after my shift had finished?

Malfoy laughed openly as he heard the peephole slide back. I closed it sharply and moved on, thoughts of his wife and her connection to Professor Snape still in my mind. He was almost due his monthly visit and I wondered if it would be possible for me to intercept her for a short while before she went to see her husband. But then why should she tell me about the Unbreakable Vow? Why didn't I just ask Professor Snape?

He was sitting at his table, suffering the last half-hour of candlelight before they would be put out. As I slipped into his cell he looked up at me and I was rewarded with a look of surprise.

"Have you not inflicted yourself upon your prisoners once already today?" he asked, running his slender fingers along the grain of the wood in an irritated fashion.

"Thorp has taken ill," I informed him.

"Thorp? The thug who knows how to use his wand a little too readily?"

"And his fists," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

"Bickering in the ranks," he said quietly. "How charming."

"I don't have to agree with all my colleagues do and think," I said calmly, relieved to find the book not in evidence. "Most of them don't have an original thought in their heads, and when they do it usually involves something unpalatable."

"If they were capable of original thought they would not be doing this job," he remarked, casting me a sly sideways look to see if I would rise to the insult.

I had barely registered that we were having a conversation of sorts when he decided it was time to bring it to an end.

"Well, this is all very pleasant, but you can leave me now. As you can see, I am healthy and have no need of your attention. I have other things to occupy my mind."

"Such as?"

"Arithmancy. Although I have to say, these are not the hardest puzzles I have encountered." He patted his pocket derisively.

"Really?" I asked. "I couldn't do them at all."

"That doesn't surprise me in the slightest. Good night." He reverted to studying the desk, waiting for me to depart his cell before resuming his puzzling.

"I have a question," I said slowly, wondering if asking him would provoke some sort of rage from his normally subdued soul.

"Do you?" he smirked. "Then kindly ask it of someone else."

"It relates to your trial."

He was silent and apart from a slight whitening of his knuckles you would not think I had said anything. I could see the line of his jaw set firm, and I knew that I really shouldn't pursue this.

"And to Narcissa Malfoy," I finished.

"Get out," he hissed. "Before I do something regrettable."

"You aren't in a position to do anything regrettable."

He scowled at me at this reminder of his impotence and I pressed him further.

"And the Unbreakable Vow."

He stood up, his height putting me at an instant disadvantage. I think he possibly expected me to dash from the cell quivering, but I held my ground and waited for the wave of anger to wash away.

"I said get out. Do not come in here asking questions that you could find the answer to elsewhere." His face was the colour of the snow that caked the fortress and his black eyes contrasted bleakly with it.

"I cannot find the answer to this anywhere. It would seem that you and Narcissa Malfoy are the only people that know the truth of the matter. And no one seems to be listening to Mrs Malfoy."

"You are wrong." His voice was gruff but I could feel that his ire was not quite so raw as it had been a few seconds ago. "There is someone else who knows about the Unbreakable Vow. The person that sealed it."

"And who might that be?"

"You think I shall tell you that?" he said, with a bitter laugh. "Don't try and rescue me from a fate I richly deserve. I killed a man." His head was up and defiant, a face that was looking for castigation. "Your meddling cannot change that."

"Throughout all the newspaper reports there was never a real reason given for you killing Dumbledore." He winced as I named the reason for his incarceration. "And I believe there must be one. I think the Unbreakable Vow is the key."

"How very clever of you."

"And I don't believe you did it in cold blood."

"Well, aren't you the little saint? I thank you for your book, but if it means I have to suffer this level of kindness then I would rather you take it back." He moved to remove it from his robes but I shook my head.

"Keep it," I said. "I will make my investigations on my own. And I am sorry about your wife. I did not know."

"GET OUT!" His voice reached a hysterical note I did not think he could have possessed. "NEVER MENTION HER TO ME AGAIN!" He came at me, eyes wild with grief and I backed towards the wall involuntarily, not thinking to lay a hand on my wand.

The door rattled and was flung open by Eamon, who had his wand drawn. He pointed it calmly at Professor Snape and began to utter a curse.

"No, Eamon!" I reached for his wand arm and brought it down. He threw me off and raised his wand once more. "_Crucio!_" he cried, and instantly Professor Snape dropped like a stone, writhing around in twists of agony.

"I said no, Eamon! This was not his fault. I provoked him."

Eamon gave me a puzzled look. "He was about to attack you. What would you have me do?"

"He would not have attacked me," I sighed, wanting to drop to the suffering wizard's side and bring him some comfort from the sting of the curse that I had inadvertently brought down on him. I could not do it while Eamon still occupied the cell; it was bad enough I was defending a prisoner.

"Well, it looked to me like he was already doing so," Eamon snapped. "You want to watch yourself, standing up for one of them. It'll get you in to trouble. Don't think I haven't noticed the clean blankets and the odd fruit pit."

"Please, Eamon," I said. "This is between me and him." I needed to make something up and quickly. "He… he did something for my family before they were… well… you know."

Eamon's eyes softened a little. He was not a bad man, not as bad as some of them anyway, and he knew all about the tragedy that had befallen my parents and brother.

"He saved them from other Death Eaters once, deflected an attack. I know he's done something terrible, but I felt I needed to repay him for that in some small way. You do understand, don't you?"

He faltered now, looking down at the balled pain that Professor Snape had become. "It's still not right and if they catch you you'll be packed off the island… and he'll be in worse trouble."

"But you won't tell anyone, will you?" I touched his shoulder lightly, a small gesture that I hoped would make him feel as if I had taken him in as a much needed confidante.

"It's not for me to say anything, not if he did help out your parents. Just watch it, especially with Simeon. He won't have noticed that blanket, but anything bigger and he might."

"Thank you," I said earnestly. "It means an awful lot to me."

"Come on then," he said. "Out you go. I've come to relieve you so you can get some kip. And don't even think about it," he added, as I turned back to Professor Snape. "You want to play at being a ministering angel, you do it when I'm not around."

I cast the stricken professor one last regretful look before slipping from the cell and allowing Eamon to slam it shut. I bade him goodnight and stopped by the Keeper of the Keys' office on my way back to my room to drop the set of keys I held. If the evening had taught me one thing, it was to not mention Professor Snape's wife in front of him. The wound was obviously still too deep to be inspected in any way. I felt sorry for the man and for his beautiful, dead wife, their lives broken at their feet by something I didn't feel he had had the power to control. As I left the key room, I noticed that the new round of visitors had been posted. Narcissa Malfoy was due in two days' time and I intended to be there when she arrived. What really made my eyebrows lift, however, was the presence of Professor Snape's name up there and next to it a visitor's name. The name Remus Lupin was familiar to me, although I wasn't sure why. But if he were due to visit Professor Snape then I would make it my business to know why.

I returned to my room and set the newspapers in the fire. It would not do for them to be found on one of the rare, but possible, searches that were made of staff quarters. Feeling there was more progress to made with the arrival of visitors, I did not dwell too much on my failure with him that night. Before I had brought up things he found hurtful he had been almost convivial, and that was promising. I settled between my sheets with an overwhelming feeling of tiredness on me. It had been a very long day, and if the sickness were to spread the days would only get longer. I needed every minute of sleep I could get.


	5. An Interesting Conversation

Chapter Five

An Interesting Conversation

A troubled mind really knows no peace, and despite needing sleep, I found it had decided to be a stranger to me that night. I turned fretfully on my bed and slept only for a half hour here and there. When I did stagger out of bed it was an hour earlier than I needed to be up. A good many of my troubled thoughts had revolved around burning the newspapers. After all, I had never had my room searched in all the time I had been here. My caution had been swayed by Eamon's words, and I resolved to be less reactive in future. After all, Eamon had given me his word that he would not speak of what I told him to anyone else.

When I did report for work I found Eamon almost sleeping at his post. He handed me the keys wearily and patted me on the shoulder. His grey eyes looked tired of seeing, and I knew he would not have the same trouble as I had when it came to sleeping.

"Any news of Simeon?" I asked.

He shook his head, sandy hair reflecting in the candlelight. "Nothing. They can't rely on us two to man this corridor indefinitely. They'll have to bring more in from the mainland."

"You think that's likely?" I asked, knowing how unwelcome this job was.

"No, but we can hope. Have a good shift," he said wryly. "I'll see you at eight."

I did not relish the prospect of a twelve-hour shift, walking up and down these soulless corridors. I had developed a theory that the longer your shift, the more slowly the minutes passed, and so I knew the day had become a protracted tunnel that had no light at the end of it, for now, anyway. From up above I could hear a cry of anguish permeate through the thick floors, and wondered what horrors where being inflicted on the unfortunate prisoner.

Before entering Azkaban I had taken it upon myself to make a study of wizarding and Muggle prisons, and it struck me that there was not much to choose between them. Azkaban was harsh, of that there was no doubt, but at least the prisoners here were given their own cells. In some Muggle gaols, cells designed for one or two men were shared by half-a-dozen. I think society wants to punish them with more than just loss of liberty, and humiliation seems to be the order of the day. And in all the articles I had read, there were few who felt my sympathy. All prisoners were dogs, to be kennelled and chained, to be brutalised until they sank lower than even they might have thought possible. I had seen it in my own short time here. Young witches and wizards brought in for minor offences — stealing and vandalism — reduced to serious criminals that would relish the prospect of putting into practice their prison-learned curses.

I was still musing over this when I prodded my key into the lock of Professor Snape's door. The cell was lit up, announcing the daylight hours for the benefit of the sky-deprived prisoners. This was another thing that irked me. Sunlight was vital for the health of a person, and the prisoners never saw any. No wonder then, that when illness came their way they were a ready home for it.

"Good day to you, Professor," I said, using my humblest tone of voice to try and make amends for the upset I had caused the previous day. "It's a cold one."

"They are all cold," he responded. "And it has little to do with the outside temperature."

He appeared to have recovered from Eamon's curse and had, if his general demeanour was anything to go by, forgiven me for provoking the reaction.

"Have a banana," I said, placing the cheerfully shaped fruit on his desk. "It'll keep your energy up." I was expecting a sarcastic response, but none came, and I looked at him sharply. I had become used to — almost fond of — his biting manner, and to have it suddenly absent was jarring.

"What?" he said, feeling the pressure of my expectation.

"Nothing," I replied. "Nothing at all. Are you feeling well?"

"Quite well, thank you."

_Good Aphrodite_, I thought, _was that horrible lurch of his mouth a smile? An impossibility, surely? Professor Severus Snape did not smile._

"Are you sure?"

He looked as if he was about to choke. "Absolutely, and you?"

And me? He was asking after my own health, out of the blue and with no provocation. I tried to ascertain the reason for this small, but marked, change in attitude and found I couldn't.

"You seem a little… well, a little more content today." I didn't take my eyes off him as the familiar sneer settled on his face again.

"Contentment is for those with something to be content about," he said. "It's not for me."

"Few of us truly have much to be content about," I reminded him. "Many people lost family in the last war and they find they have to make do with what little they now have. But they find some sort of peace within themselves. It's the only way to get through life; to make peace with yourself."

"Spare me your amateur psychological assessments. Peace is not an option," he said, turning his head in my direction and fixing those freezing eyes on me. "I have no peace in my head. What I do have is a mind full of completed Arithmancy puzzles."

So that was it. He had tried small talk and found he was not accomplished enough at it to drag it out for very long, so now he was relying on the direct approach. I toyed with the idea of playing with him, teasing the request for a new book out of him, but I didn't have the necessary cruel streak to do that to him.

"You would like some more reading material?" I asked.

"I have completed all the puzzles in your books." This was as much as he was prepared to give in admitting he wanted something.

"What would you like?" I asked, wondering, as he had found the Arithmancy so easy, if the things I had were quite up to his standard?

He waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Whatever you can spare."

His martyred approach was so staged that I couldn't help the gust of laughter that broke from my lips.

"Is something amusing you?" he asked, his manner suddenly frosty.

"Sorry," I apologised. "You just look so pathetically noble sometimes. You don't need to put on an act for me. I think you'll find your life would be easier without it."

"Look, Miss…" And he ground to a halt, appraising me. "I don't know your name." He looked irritated by this deficit, as if admitting he didn't know something made him a lesser person. In all our months of shared hostility he had never once asked me my name.

"Carr, Katherine Carr," I supplied. "You can call me Miss Carr." I was joking, not really expecting him to be so formal, despite my formality with him, but he took me at my word and called me Miss Carr from then on.

"Miss Carr, I do not pretend to be anything other than someone attempting to accept their altered circumstances. Seeing as you saw fit to deny me death, the least you can do is not mock me in life."

"I wasn't mocking you," I said. "I was… I was making light of something that you would do well to make more light of."

"And what might that be?"

"Your face when you are feeling hard done by."

"I know the limitations of my own face. I do not need a slip of a girl reminding me with her derision."

"You need to stop taking what people say so literally," I commented, taking the book that he had pulled from his ragged robes and slipping it into my own. "So, any requests?"

"Something interesting, none of that lightweight nonsense that young witches like to read. Are you likely to have something suitable, or was the Arithmancy an aberration in your reading tastes?" I could see the doubt in his eyes and snorted at him with annoyance.

"I have several interesting volumes," I bit back. "I'll choose something suitably heavy for you to complain about."

"I'm sure you will." He sighed and sat back in his chair, fussily arranging his filthy robes around him. "But whatever it is, it will be preferable to listening to the thunderous silence of this cell."

"That it will," I agreed. "I must go and check on the others. I'll let you have the book tomorrow, Professor."

He looked at me from the corner of his eyes and murmured a begrudging thank you.

The following day brought visitors, two of whom I wanted to speak to before they got to their assignations. Fortunately, I was on duty that day and was charged with bringing the prisoners their loved ones. They conducted their visits in the cells, something I thought was arranged to make the visits as uncomfortable as possible for all concerned. I had only been on duty for visiting days once before, and the sight of so many distressed witches and wizards and, most distressed of all, children, filing through the deep despair of Azkaban was heart-wrenching. I had just watched over a tearful reunion between a father and son in cell sixty-nine, when I felt, rather than heard, the commotion at the gate to the corridor.

The walls and floors of Azkaban always seem to respond to malcontent, absorbing the reverberations, distilling them, and then giving the dark thoughts and feelings back, magnified, to the occupants. As I ushered the crushed man beside me towards the gate, I could now hear a high-pitched voice screeching at Eamon that she was to be allowed in immediately and would not be kept waiting a moment longer. They came into view and I immediately recognised the woman from the newspaper photographs. Her face was rigid with frustration as she tried to bend Eamon to do her bidding. She had the blondest hair I have ever seen; so pale it was almost white, and it was carefully pulled away from her face into a neat lump at the nape of her neck. She must have heard us coming, for she turned her attention to me.

"You, girl," she called, jabbing her finger into the air at me. "I want to see my husband immediately. This fool is holding me up with his nonsense about only one visitor at a time."

I didn't speak until I was standing at the gate, and when I did it was with a gentle persuasiveness that I hoped would make her, if not warm to me, then at least lower her guard somewhat.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Malfoy, but we don't make the rules. We have to ensure the safety of everyone concerned."

Eamon opened the gate, with Narcissa Malfoy still whittering on beside him. The man at my side shuddered as he stepped over the line that separated him from his grown child, and I gave him a weak smile and said goodbye. He moaned a little as Eamon prepared to lead him away. I ushered Narcissa Malfoy through the gate and slammed it closed behind her. My hesitation irritated her further, and she snapped at me.

"Well, come along then, girl." She had a magnificent habit of looking down her well-shaped nose, one that she was to practice a good deal over the course of our brief conversation.

"I wondered if you had a moment before you see your husband?" I said, keeping my voice down. "There was something I wanted to ask you about."

"You want to ask me something?" she asked, incredulous. "Is it about Lucius? Is he all right?"

There was a ghost on her face, the ghost of her happiness, and I thought it stirred a little at the possibility that her husband was sickening. Did this woman want her husband dead? There was certainly no concern in her voice.

"He is quite well, Mrs Malfoy," I reassured her. "This is something else entirely."

She looked puzzled, only just stopping herself from frowning. No doubt this was to prevent lines appearing on her well cared for brow. She brushed an imaginary lock of hair from her face and the cold forced a shiver from her.

"What is it?" She had become suspicious of me now, eyes narrow and distrustful.

"It's about another of our prisoners." I kept my voice steady and looked her in the eye.

"I don't know any one else in this wretched place."

"Now, Mrs Malfoy, we both know that's not true. Given the former careers of many of our inhabitants, I think you would recognise quite a few familiar faces."

She allowed the scowl now, not caring if it creased her immaculate make-up. "Possibly."

"But there is one you must have known considerably better than the others."

"And who might that be?"

"Severus Snape."

Her throat contracted as she swallowed her surprise at hearing his name. Her eyelids fluttered, panicking her pupils into dilating.

"What do you know of him?" she hissed. "I have little to say on the subject."

"He is another of my prisoners, and one that provides me with some contradictions."

"In what way?" She was recovering quickly and folded her elegant arms across her chest.

"In that I am not sure he did what he did out of malice, and I think you know why."

"Nonsense," she said, preparing to move off. "What would I know of that case?"

I took hold of her arm and prevented her from moving anywhere. "I think, Mrs Malfoy, that the Unbreakable Vow you made with him brought about the events that led to him being here."

She tried to twist her arm free, and I felt the bone beneath the flesh as she moved. Narcissa Malfoy was like a twig; her thin frame carried her flesh lightly, as if it weighed nothing. "The Unbreakable Vow was nothing," she insisted. "A foolish thing that meant nothing."

"Then why were you so keen to make yourself heard at the Ministry when Professor Snape was charged with the murder?"

She flinched, her face turning away as if struck at the mention of the murder. "I was under a great deal of pressure at that time," she said. "My son had problems, my husband was here, and I was coping alone. What I thought I knew, well, I was mistaken."

"I don't think that's the case, Mrs Malfoy. What was the Unbreakable Vow?"

She hovered between refusing again, and confiding in someone. People's desire to confess a secret or a problem is a hard temptation to fight, and Narcissa Malfoy was not the sort of woman who resisted temptation easily.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked finally. "It's not as if you can free him. Who would listen to you?" She accompanied this with a sardonic laugh.

"No one will listen to me," I admitted. "But at least I will know."

"Worked his charm on you, has he?" she moved closer and bent a little, so that we were almost on the same eye level. "He's not a physically attractive man, but there is a power there that cannot be denied. I've found it to be very potent in the past."

"I'm sure you have," I agreed. "So, what was the vow?"

"My son was given a task to perform, one I knew that he would fail to complete. Severus offered to complete the task for him, even though it would mean killing Dumbledore."

"Offered? So were does the vow come into it?" I was pleased that once she had opened the floodgates she was prepared to talk freely.

"I made him take the oath." She dropped her head and I watched her try to garner her composure. "I insisted, for my son's protection, that he take an oath. Since that time other things have come to my attention that lead me to believe he did not take that vow as unwillingly as I once thought. I think that, although he killed the man, he did not do so of his own free will."

"What makes you think that?"

"His wife told me, showed me. Dumbledore's private papers, it was all in them. They were burned before she could get them to the Ministry, and she was caught in the process. You do know he's married, don't you?"

"Was, yes," I said, and wondered at the look of amusement that crossed her face.

"So, if you just wanted to know for yourself whether he was innocent, you can take my word for it that he was. Dumbledore's death was contrived, unwelcome, I'm sure, for both of them, but arranged to gain them the most advantage. The Dark Lord may be gone, and Severus' betrayal of him needs to be accounted for in that, but the people will not forgive him the murder of their greatest hero, not that they treated the old man like a hero when he was alive. They often derided him and made him appear stupid, diminished somewhat."

I nodded, remembering the ridicule the old headmaster had suffered when he tried to insist that Voldemort was back. People have such short memories when it comes to their own behaviour and willingness to disbelieve the truth, even when they see it plain before them.

"Thank you," I said. "You have told me all I need to know. Do you believe there is any chance his innocence can be proved?"

"None at all. He knows it better than anyone. He sacrificed himself for my son, for Dumbledore and for the wizarding world." I thought her voice was about to crack, but she straightened her lips and looked proudly at me. "Ultimately, he proved himself to everyone that knew him and respected him. Unfortunately, we were few and far between. Now, my husband."

I nodded, walking away from her misery towards the door the shielded the world from Lucius Malfoy.

"I will wait for you here," I informed her, and swung the door inwards to allow her entry. Closing the door again, I realised that having my suspicions confirmed about his innocence did not settle my mind, as I had thought it would. Instead my mind raced at the injustice of this man being locked up with no hope of release for a selfless act that must have cost him dear.

And there really was no hope, of release from Azkaban or relief from his own grief.


	6. Piece by Piece

Chapter Six

Piece by Piece

I was surprised by the short length of time Narcissa Malfoy spent with her husband. She was banging on the cell door after just ten minutes, and when I opened it, it was to a face harrowed by tears. She almost stumbled from the cell, her husband's throaty laugh accompanying her every faltering step of the way. I put out a hand to steady her, but she pulled her limbs close and refused any aid. Closing the door afforded me a view of Lucius Malfoy, and his eyes were scalding in their frustration and loathing. I could not help comparing him to Professor Snape at that moment: here was a livid, angry man, raging against his fate and making no attempt to reconcile himself, while Professor Snape had turned in on himself and tried to find a way to adjust his mind to what had befallen him. I knew which of them would lose their sanity first, and it would not be the composed man in cell sixty-six.

I was about to usher Narcissa Malfoy from the corridor, but she hesitated and I turned my questioning face to her. Her tears had abated and she looked almost ashamed of the outpouring of emotion, dabbing at her pale cheeks with a white handkerchief that she had pulled from her robes.

"Is there a problem?" I asked sharply, knowing that if I could get rid of her, I would have ten minutes of peace before the next visitor arrived.

"Would it… Could I… Is it possible for me to see him?"

I looked at her, knowing what she was asking, but wanting to hear the words spoken. I had before me a woman who had been happy enough to be compliant with some of the greatest evil that had stalked the country, and she was temporarily in my power. I wasn't sure what I would do with that power, but it was gratifying to have it.

"See who?" I asked, watching her mouth twitch at the possibility that she would have to be explicit.

"Severus! Is it possible for me to see Severus?" she asked, hating me for making her ask the question so completely.

"I'm afraid not," I said, shaking my head. I know, it sounds cruel of me to deny her this after she had willingly given me the information I had sought. But some rules are not there to be broken, and the rule of only one visitor per prisoner was one of them. Narcissa Malfoy could not see Professor Snape, not while he had another visitor waiting to see him on the same day.

"Not even if I had some news for him. Something he perhaps is not aware of?" Her blue eyes held me suspended in my thirst for knowledge.

"It is against the rules. He has another visitor this day, and more than one is not permissible. I have to concede to the visitor who has officially requested to see him."

"And who is that?" she snapped, angry at being denied something that appeared to be such a simple demand.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mrs Malfoy."

"You are being deliberately obstructive," she said coldly. "I thought you were interested in him. Is this a petty jealousy on your part?"

I gave her a blank look, ignoring the implication of her words. "I think it is time you left. If you have a message you wish me to pass on to him, I will do my best for you."

Her laugh chilled me more than any icy wind ever had; it was high and fragile. "Tell you! I think not," she said, throwing her robes around her and setting off up the corridor, forcing me to jog slightly to catch up with her. "Just let me out of this place. If I am not allowed to see him, you shall not be the one to deliver the news I have for him."

It was no good. The news would have to depart with her. Smuggling books and fruit was one thing, but if anyone caught her in his cell, I would lose my job instantly and face severe punishment, and he would be punished even more ruthlessly. Eamon fumbled with the key and unlocked the door to permit her to leave, raising an eyebrow at me as he did so. She went without saying another word, forcing Eamon into a brisk walk to keep her in his sights.

Left alone for the moment, I felt suddenly alone and lost; the dark corridor with its weak light felt more oppressive than usual. I hadn't given the Christmas season much thought, but the woman's warm fragrance had reminded me of something, a vague recollection that swirled just beyond my consciousness. Tall, pine-scented trees and sparkling decorations danced in my mind, and I remembered the warmth of my family Christmases. Aging aunts with papery lips planting lipsticked kisses on my forehead, the smell of spicy tobacco smoke from Great-Uncle Wiggins, the feast that my mother always had prepared, and the gifts, the most important of which — although I hadn't realised it at the time — was their love and the presence of the people I cared for the most in the world. I would never have another Christmas like those. Last year I had spent it alone in my London flat with the cold realisation that I lived in a vacuum, my work the only thing that made one day different to the next.

I wasn't sure when I had closed myself off from the world of real people. It was easier to be compassionate about other people, people far distanced from yourself. Easier to care for the idea of people than for people themselves. An individual was a risk to be taken, a potential grief to be endured – so why on earth was I preparing to endure it now, with this prisoner? Perhaps it was because I knew I would be leaving soon, and any bond formed could be severed by me, and no one else.

The small heave of my chest as the weight there shifted brought me back to myself, and the fact that Eamon was once again rattling the door and preparing to admit another visitor.

"Remus Lupin, for your friend in there," Eamon announced, nodding towards sixty-six with a wry smile on his face. "Visitor for him is a turn up, eh?"

The man I was faced with now was the epitome of careworn. His face was ravaged – there was no other word for it – by life and sat uncomfortably on shoulders that had carried too much weight. He extended a heavy hand and I shook it, unprepared for such normal manners in this cold void of a place. His pale eyes held shadows and secrets that I knew I would not wish to know under any circumstances, and when he spoke his voice was low and pocked with gravel.

"I'm here to see Severus Snape, but I suppose you know that already."

"Follow me," I said, wanting to get away from Eamon's eager ears.

He moved silently, padding behind me like an obedient pup, although his years of being a pup were long gone if his greying hair was anything to go by. We came to a halt by Professor Snape's door and, once again, I hesitated before opening it.

"Is there something you wish to tell me?" he asked, looking towards the door anxiously. "I know that Severus is not the most co-operative of men. I hardly expect him to see me, but it would be to his advantage."

"He hasn't been told he has a visitor. He has never had one before." I saw the look of sadness in the man's eyes and wondered if this was another one of the exclusive group of people that Narcissa Malfoy had spoken about. "But I did want to ask you what your connection to him was."

"Why?" He had the look of a man used to avoiding questions, and I could see him preparing to deny me answers. I could not be as honest with him as I had been with the woman, for I did not know his views on my prisoner's innocence.

"Because I believe it would help us to better understand him. He is not an easy prisoner."

"No," he gave a rough laugh. "I would imagine Severus would make a very poor prisoner indeed. Especially as he knows he is innocent."

And there was my answer, delivered neatly to my door. Here was a supporter, not a detractor. "And you agree with that assessment?"

"I do." He nodded. "I have known Severus for a very long time, too long, some might say. I know his wife also, better than I know Severus."

I ignored the way he had phrased this. If he had been a friend of the late Mrs Snape, then perhaps he preferred to think of her as still living. I know I had thought of my parents and brother in the present tense for many years after they had died. I still do, sometimes.

"Do you know about the Unbreakable Vow?" I asked quietly.

"The one with Narcissa Malfoy? Yes, I know about it. But it has little bearing on this. Severus was caught red-handed, so to speak. The rights and wrongs of the situation, the Unbreakable Vow, Dumbledore's wishes – none of them matter in the face of the Ministry's need to find a culprit. They do not wish to know the truth of the matter."

I nodded sadly and went to unlock the door. "Let me announce you first," I said, realising I sounded ridiculously like a domestic servant rather than a gaoler. Closing the door on Remus Lupin, I tried to decide upon the correct wording for informing the man in the cell that he had company.

Professor Snape was waiting at his table and looked up expectantly, greedy for more material to occupy his mind with. He greeted me first — yes, greeted _me_ — with a small 'good morning'. I returned his salutation and hovered, uncertain, by the door.

"What is it?" he asked, sensing my discomfort somehow. "You appear distracted, more so than usual."

Normally I would have smiled, or sent back a little barb myself, but now I merely shifted my weight. His face was almost calm today, that scrabbling grief buried deep enough for it not to be so evident. I swallowed, trying to encourage some saliva into my dry mouth, but it didn't work and when I opened my mouth to speak, I spluttered.

"You have a visitor," I said between coughs.

"A what?" he asked, the concept new and unwelcome to him.

"There is someone here to see you."

"I do not wish to see anyone. I did not ask to see anyone." He paused, and I was struck violently by the amount of anger that he could conjure in those black eyes.

"Nevertheless, there is someone here to see you." I wondered if he would not be the slightest bit curious to see who this visitor was. Apparently he wasn't.

"I must suffer your presence in my life. I will not suffer anyone else's."

I wasn't sure if this was a backhanded compliment, but the look of antipathy on his face was enough to take the gloss off it, if it were. This sudden antagonism was an indicator of the frail nature of our acquaintance, and I knew I needed to move hurriedly to maintain the trust.

"You do not have to see anyone," I admitted. "I can send them away. But do you not think it would be in your interests?"

"Can this phantom release me from this cell?"

"No," I answered truthfully.

"Then send them away. Why should I allow a reminder that there is something beyond the four walls of this cell to taunt my senses? Get rid of them."

"They may not come back," I said, trying to make some show of persuading him.

The anger bubbled again, his eyes becoming drops of tar that steamed in the ice of the cell. I knew when to back out of an argument with him by now, and I needed to get out before Eamon had cause to come down with his wand waving. "I will come back later," I said, "when visiting is over. I will have a book for you."

He looked up at me, the heat gone from his gaze. "Thank you," he whispered. And I do believe he really meant it.

Remus Lupin did not look too surprised when I stepped back into the corridor and locked the door behind me. He was the first to speak.

"He will not see me, will he?"

I looked at his sad eyes and withered a little, inwardly. Surely Professor Snape would have benefited from the counsel of this man, who, although worn, was wise-looking.

"No, he will not. He is not in a good way and wants to close himself off from anything that reminds him of what he has lost."

We began to walk back towards the gate. I had almost expected Mr Lupin to hammer at the cell door and insist Professor Snape admit him, but he apparently wasn't given to histrionics. He stopped just short of the gate and turned back to me.

"How is he?" he asked. "Really, how is he?"

"Hard to tell," I replied guardedly. "Sometimes he wallows in his own despair and on other days he is almost miserable."

"As good as that?" he said, and I allowed myself a smile. This was a man that did, indeed, know Professor Snape quite well.

"I think it is the loss of his wife," Mr Lupin shifted uneasily at this, "that has maimed him the most. I think he could endure this if he thought she had survived."

"They have not told him, then?" Remus Lupin cast a long look back down the corridor and seemed almost on the verge of tears.

"Told him what?"

"His wife did not die. She is here, in Azkaban."

I swayed back on my heels a little. In a lifetime of unexpected news, this was one of the more memorable pieces of information I had even received. If she was here, where exactly was she?

"But how can that be?" I gasped. "He's been destroying himself, piece by piece, because he thinks she is dead. Why was he not told?"

Mr Lupin caught my arm and steadied me a little, and I felt Eamon shift uncomfortably at the contact between visitor and gaoler. Eamon did like his rules.

"They probably imagined that the loss of his wife was the best punishment they could inflict upon him. And from what you have said, they succeeded."

"How can I tell him?" I said, looking wildly to Mr Lupin. "What would it do to him? Is that why you were here today, to tell him?"

He shook his head. "I wanted to see if he was capable of hearing the news, before finding out just what condition she was in. I don't know if we can tell him. The thought that she is within these very walls might torture him more than her death."

"It might, but there has to be something we can do."

Eamon must have been worried by the snatches of our conversation that he managed to catch, for he unlocked the gate and swung it open.

"Come on then," he growled. "If he doesn't want to see you, let's have you out of there."

Remus Lupin looked at me, limpid eyes worried by what I now knew.

"Don't worry," I said, as he walked away. "I won't do anything that will cause any further damage."

And, left alone, I sank back against the damp wall, my back making contact with the cold slime that covered it. I had a challenge now, a greater one than I thought I had had. I must rebuild the relationship with Professor Snape and his wife. While he had destroyed himself, I would have to try and repair the damage, piece by piece.


	7. The Missing Wife

Chapter Seven

The Missing Wife

Three days had passed since Remus Lupin gave me the news of Maeve Snape's survival and I had continued to visit her husband, trying my utmost to make everything appear normal. Well, as normal as things could be in Azkaban, which really wasn't very normal at all, all things considered. Casually asked questions here and there had revealed that she was being held on D wing. I have no idea what the D stands for, but on my first visit there, shortly after I had arrived, I would have been forgiven for thinking it stood for demented. There were several prisoners here who really should have been in St Mummery's Shelter For the Incurably Insane. I had vowed never to re-visit the depths of the wing unless I absolutely had to, and now I knew that I absolutely had to.

It is not difficult to gain access to other wings if you are prepared to put in the overtime. There is a list posted that details shift shortages – our own wing made quite a few appearances, what with the sickness that was still stalking the corridors – and it was to this I turned. Sure enough, there were several shifts that needed covering. I pulled out a quill and scratched my name in for two of them. It would not necessarily mean I would find her, but it could give me a better idea of exactly where she was.

Professor Snape continued to improve, which, in itself, made it difficult to contemplate imparting the news about his wife. He had worked his way through _Exhausting the Magickal Senses: How to Approach Things Rationally_ and was now busy with _A Complete History of Time-Turners._ Although still a tricky prospect, I found I could now approach him with a slightly more relaxed manner. He would bridle at small things, but was an eager opponent if the conversation turned to matters of general debate. I was taking to spending longer and longer in his cell, and I worried that it would be noted by more than just Eamon, but the prisoner was compelling, if, at times, taciturn.

Christmas was crawling ever closer, and I had foolishly suggested we mark the occasion in some way for the prisoners. I was almost laughed out of what we optimistically call a staff room. My idea was not well received and the guffaws of derision are still ringing in my ears. But surely allowing them a sprig of holly and a Pumpkin Pasty would not be seen as going soft on them. My own plans for Christmas revolved, of course, around work. I had shifts to cover all through Christmas week, and we were not allowed to leave the fortress, so the best I could do was have a small, festive parcel of treats sent in.

But these were premature musings. My first task was to get through two evening shifts on D Wing, something I was at once both excited and pensive about attempting. You can hear the prisoners from the main thoroughfare that runs through that part of the castle, a cackling and wailing that sounds like something straight out of a child's dark storybook. Here lie demons and despair, the like of which is beyond what most normal souls can ever be expected to confront.

I arrived for my first shift to find a woman with exhaustion etched in every crease of her face manning the main gate there. She gave me a quizzical look as I approached, her grey brows knotting fiercely.

"Yes?"

"Katherine Carr, I have the late shift tonight."

She scowled. "Your number?"

Hit-Wizards all have a personal number that dogs their days. Without it, you are no one in the world I inhabit. I gave her my number and she ran her wand over a piece of parchment. Security here was apparently even tighter than our own corridor, a fact that continually surprised me given the nature of some of our prisoners.

"Well, ain't you the lucky one?" she commented, reaching down to her belt to remove a rusting key. "You've got corridor G, and it's a full one."

She shuffled from her perch, grunted, and unlocked the gate for me. "In you go. Straight along, seventh gate on your right."

I looked at her rough features and any questions I may have had froze in my throat. Here was someone who had spent many years at the sharp end of our line of work, and I didn't think it would serve me well to try and make conversation with her.

"Tell Albert he'd better get his arse out of there now you're here," she growled at me, revealing a mouth that was missing several teeth, and what was left were an unappealing shade of yellow. "Stupid man would stay in there all night if he could. Ridiculous devotion to duty."

I nodded and hurried off down the corridor, anxious to be away from her penetrating gaze. Hoots of mad mirth howled around the place, and shrieks that could freeze blood quickly followed. I didn't look through the other gates, didn't want to see anything I didn't have to. Corridor G was alive with madness, and the woman at the main gate had been right, Albert didn't want to leave. He was busy wresting a chair leg from a ruddy-faced witch whose hair was sparking with her malevolence. I withdrew my wand, much as Eamon had done when Professor Snape came at me, and Albert reacted exactly as I had.

"Put it away!" he snapped. "Grab her other arm."

A struggle ensued until, breathless, we finally wore her down. Albert reattached the chair leg and pulled me from the cell. It took some persuasion to get him to leave, and he insisted on giving me an even more exhaustive hand-over than even Eamon would have done. But finally I got him to turn his back on the bedlam and make his way to his bed. As he did so, someone down the end of the corridor started screaming that she was Cerridwen Culzean, the mighty sorceress and ruler of the witches of Wales, and if she wasn't released immediately she would "hex the bloody lot of you into the middle of next week, so I shall."

And this was my introduction to working on the dreaded D Wing. Although I peered eagerly into every cell on my corridor, even Cerridwen's – she turned out to be a short witch of about sixty with wild eyes and a shock of black hair – I did not see anyone resembling Maeve Snape, although I did see more insanity than I would have wished to. The night was long, and left me mentally exhausted. I had just three hours before I was due back on my own corridor for my normal shift, so when I returned to my room I fell onto my bed without removing my clothes and snatched a few precious hours of sleep.

I managed to drag myself from the depths of my dreamless slumber after two hours; waking myself at will was a skill that had been developed over the years. My brain ached from lack of sustained sleep, but I hauled myself to my feet and headed off to my own prisoners. I had not thought it possible to view the likes of Lucius Malfoy with anything other than contempt, but given his relatively normal state, I was almost glad to see his leering, irritated face. When I moved to sixty-six and found Professor Snape sitting at his table, head resting on folded arms, I was reminded of my failure of the previous night and sighed softly to myself. If he was asleep, there was no point in disturbing him.

As I turned to leave he gave a groan of sorts and I stopped.

"Good morning," he said, in a voice choked with sleep. "I seem to have dozed off."

"It is only eight o'clock," I pointed out. "How could you be sleepy at this hour?"

He shook his head at my misunderstanding. "No, I must have dozed off last night. Sleeping at a table is not the most comfortable thing to do." He stood up, stretching out cramped limbs tentatively.

"The book must have been interesting," I said, nodding towards the opened history. "There are none left, you know. The entire stock was destroyed at the Ministry many years ago."

"I know." He looked almost rueful and I wondered if he had been wishing for a Time-Turner to alter the problems of his past.

"You look tired today," he said, "and not a little unkempt."

"It is most unlike you to notice such details," I replied, raising the ghost of a smile. "But I am working extra shifts."

"Really? That's very generous of you, or do they pay so poorly you need the added money?"

I paused before replying, wishing I could share the real reason with him. "Christmas is coming; more money is always welcome."

"And you have family?" I could see the effort it took him to talk about family, given his own circumstances.

"Not any more," I said, bowing my head a little, not used to speaking of them. "They were killed, some time ago. My mum and dad and my brother."

"That must have been unpleasant."

"That's a word you could use," I said, raising my head and noting the genuine sympathy in his eyes. "And you?"

"You know about my family." He was slowly bringing the shutters down on his face, and I wished he wouldn't. Perhaps talking about her would enable me to better judge how to approach the problem.

"I know you have a wife, that is all."

"Had."

"You must miss her." Too late, I realised how painfully inadequate the words were, how hopeless and trite. But for once he chose to take them in the spirit that they were offered.

"I miss her more than I can articulate." He gave a cough to clear the ache from his throat. "But there is little sense in dwelling on that now. She is gone from me and I need to come to terms with that."

"There is always hope," I whispered.

"Hope," he spat, contempt emanating from him. "Hope is a fickle and flighty creature. She raises expectations and dashes them just as quickly. I have no wish for hope to visit me now."

"Christmas approaches." I tried to ignore his derision. "Christmas is always a time for hope."

"Christmas is humbug, a time for foolish sentiment and ceaseless, sickly cheerfulness. One of the only things to be said in this place's favour is that there will be a complete lack of any frivolity."

"You can be sure of that." I grimaced, my colleagues' laughter ringing fresh in my ears still. "I must go and check on the others. Let me know when you need a new book."

"I will," he said with a nod.

Hunger kept me awake in the break between my normal shift and my overtime, and I prayed that I would not be assigned to corridor G again, or my lack of sleep would be a waste. The ogre from the previous night was not there. In her place was a tall man, with the kindest expression I have yet seen in this austere place. He smiled at me benevolently, taking my number with a smile.

"Well, we're most grateful for your help the night," he said, with a broad Scottish accent. "Wee girl like you with these prisoners, you're a brave wan."

"I don't know about that," I said, watching as he reached for a key.

"It'll be G for ye," he began, and my heart sank, until he suddenly gave a booming laugh. "Ach, silly oul' me!"

"I'm sorry?" I said, as he slapped his thigh.

"Oul' Albert's working the night. You'll be doon on O. In there, turn reet and keep goin' til the end."

With a little leap of the precious hope that Professor Snape had dismissed, I took the key from him and once again stepped into the madness of D wing. I hurried to the end and found a surly man waiting by the gate, impatience on his face.

"And about bloody time," he growled, unlocking the gate from his side and swapping positions. "They've been at it all day, so you'll be in for a quiet night. Exhausted themselves with their shenanigans."

"Thanks," I said as he hurried away muttering oaths.

I stayed where I was for a little while, not wanting to look for her, not wanting to feel the disappointment. There is always excitement at the prospect of uncovering a treasure, but often when it is uncovered, or is found to be wanting, that excitement dissolves into disenchantment. I didn't want any disenchantment tonight.

Eventually, I gathered my wits and began to make my way down the corridor. It was quieter than any I had yet encountered down here; the man I had relieved had obviously been correct in his assumption that they had tired themselves out. The first few cells contained ragged males, sleeping in crumpled knots on their pallets. None stirred when I closed the peepholes and I continued to hope; that it would stay this way and that one of these cells would reveal more than just madmen.

Cell fifty looked uninhabited, the pallet empty, the chair and table unoccupied. I slipped the key in the lock and carefully opened the door, ready for any attack that might come with my wand at the ready. I lit my wand and knew immediately that I had found what I was looking for. Hair the exact shade of my own covered her face, matted and dulled by dirt. She had crammed herself into a corner and it was unclear whether she was sleeping or awake.

If she was in this manic place, there was a good chance there was something wrong with her mind. Either that, or they wanted her to believe there was something wrong with her mind.

"Mrs Snape?" I asked. She didn't move, and I began to believe she was asleep. Sleep was a better place for someone in this part of the fortress than anywhere else. "Mrs Snape? Maeve?"

The bundle moved slightly, dirty green fabric rustling. Her head moved and hair fell from a face that had not seen soap and water for a long time. Her eyes were as warm as her husband's were cold, deep gold that reflected the wand light with an extra lustre. But the rest of her was faded. Nothing but those eyes bore any resemblance to the woman in the photograph.

"Who are you?" she asked hoarsely. I detected a faint Irish lilt that gave her words a melodic quality.

"I'm Katherine Carr. I normally work on another wing. But I came to try and find you." I don't know why, but I never questioned the fact that the wife could take news that her husband could not. Perhaps I just expect women to be stronger.

"Find me?" She seemed to realise that she was at a disadvantage and straightened herself up, using the wall to help her to her feet. "Why would you want to find me?"

"Why don't you sit down?" I suggested, nodding to the chair.

"I can stand just as well as I can sit," she said quietly. "Why do you want to see me?"

"I had a visitor for one of my prisoners a few days ago."

"Please," she said, her voice impatient. "Don't dress up what you have to say. Just tell me."

"Remus Lupin came to see me. He said he knows you and your husband. I think he was going to try and visit you too, at some point."

"They will not let visitors into this part of the prison. It is forbidden."

"Really? I didn't know that." There was an awful lot about this shadowy sector that it appeared I didn't know.

"So. This is about my husband? What did Remus have to say?" Her hard expression softened when she mentioned Remus Lupin, and I was almost tempted to ask about him, but I tried to remain focused.

"Your husband is one of my prisoners. I have managed to encourage him into some sort of dialogue. He is an intelligent man who is suffering from lack of stimulation. I have been smuggling him books."

"Really? How heroic of you." Her voice was filled with a sarcasm that surprised me. She must have seen the ill-concealed distress on my face, for she immediately apologised. "It has been some time since I came across someone that didn't treat me like an imbecile. I'm not used to reacting to normal human contact. Forgive me. How is he?"

"Struggling," I admitted. "He is coming to terms with things slowly, but you are his greatest source of regret."

"He knows I am here?" she asked, pushing her hair away from her face.

"Not exactly," I said, wondering how best to phrase the news. I heeded her earlier plea to keep things simple. "He thinks you are dead."

She apparently realised she could not longer stand as well as she could sit, and lurched towards the chair. I did not try to help her, sensing the independent spirit beneath that grimy exterior would push me away more forcibly than her husband. "Dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"How could they be so cruel?" She was brittle with bitterness, and looked at me with antagonism. "And you? What part in this grand malaise do you play?"

"Not a very large one," I said.

"And yet you play one all the same. A corruption such as this is only achievable if every cog, and every tooth on every cog, works together to maintain the whole." She looked at me steadily, making my game of books and fruit for one man seem suddenly the most inadequate and ridiculous thing in the world. "You are here, so I can only assume you agree with your masters."

"I am here, in this cell, at great risk to myself." My reply was flat and she knew there was no conviction behind it.

"You risk dismissal," she said. "We risk death and squalor. I hardly think the two are comparable."

"No," I agreed, "the two are not comparable." I hated myself for this need to justify myself, to prove myself. I had only just met her. She was a filthy bundle of rags that had the odour of a sewer about her. And yet, and yet she carried herself with such grace and dignity that I felt a little in awe of her. "But then, the prisoners in here are here for a reason."

"Why do you think I am here?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"They found me inconvenient. They knew I could prove my husband's innocence in the matter of Albus Dumbledore's death. They knew I had Dumbledore's papers and they_ burned_ them. To keep me from making any further noise they had me sent here, a mad woman whom no one would ever believe again. Is this a fair punishment for a woman wanting to prove her husband's innocence and save him from a fate worse than death?"

"No, of course it isn't," I said quietly, humbled by the force of her argument.

"Severus did not want to kill his old mentor. Has he spoken with you about it?"

I shook my head. "He does not speak of specific things. Or, at least, he tries not to."

"And does he speak of me?" The question seemed to pain her and she had to force the words from her mouth.

"No, never. I think the ache would kill him."

And the same hurt I had seen on his face rose on hers. I would have given anything to allow them to have a few moments together, but would mere moments be enough? Surely they deserved more than that.

"What do you hope to achieve with this?" she asked, once the pain had subsided. "You cannot free us, nor can you give us time together, so what is the point in this?"

"I cannot free you," I said, musing over things. She did look a little like me, and her hair was of an identical shade and style that with a little tidying up… The idea began to grow and she saw the spark of inspiration in my eyes. "But I could be you for a short while."

"What do you mean?"

"I could take your place overnight, while you went to see your husband. I can give you a map. You would not have to have too much contact with people."

"Katherine, your idea is admirable. But do you really think trained Hit-Wizards and Aurors would not instantly spot the difference?"

I looked at her face and, beneath the dirt, realised that she was really quite different to me. With the muck gone she would have a look that was purely her own. Defeated, my shoulders sagged and I looked away.

When she next spoke, there was a touch of life in her voice. "Of course, the fact that I am a Metamorphmagus would help matters considerably, don't you think?"


	8. A Way Out?

Chapter Eight

A Way Out?

I confess, I had not been expecting that little piece of information. It appeared that she was as full of secrets as her husband was. Now that my plan had been given wings on which to take flight, I experienced a moment of indecision. In my mind it was a huge risk to take merely for a visit, for what would a visit achieve but to make them more aware of what they had both lost? But if they used the opportunity for something bigger, something more ambitious, then perhaps it would be worth the jeopardy we would all be placed in if we attempted it.

Her now lively eyes sparkled at me, waiting for my response, wondering if I would back up my fine words with solid actions. I think then that she was testing me, compressing all my resolve beneath her challenge.

"It would be difficult," I began guardedly. "You do not know the prison like I do, but I suppose a map could be procured. You would need to keep it hidden, of course, and be prepared to destroy it if necessary."

She nodded slowly, waiting for me to come to my own decision. Patience was either her own innate virtue, or something she had learned whilst locked up in this frozen cell.

"But a visit seems so inconsequential," I said, waiting to see how open she would be to the risk of escape. Only one person had escaped from Azkaban in the past year, and he had perished beneath the high, cruel waves of the North Sea. To this day, no one had worked out how the poor, drowned man had escaped from his cell and the locked gates, but escape he had, for all the good it had done him. So meticulous planning was crucial to any escape. Desperate efforts were destined to end in a desperate manner. Our plan, when we arrived at one, would have to be calmly executed.

"If a visit is all we can achieve, then so be it," she replied quietly. "But freedom would be preferable."

At no point did I think she was playing a game with me. And some might say I was foolish in this. I was in the wing of lunacy and this could be just one aspect of her madness. She could well have been pretending to be complicit with my little scheme, tucking away my treachery to my employers until a later date. But I didn't think so then; I wasn't remotely concerned. If this was to be my folly in life, then so be it.

Tonight would not be the night to allow her to roam from her cell. If we were to plot towards escape rather than a visit we would need to plan and plan well. I would need to find a way to break this news to Professor Snape, and to inform him of the arrangement. He should be pleased, but I had learnt that it was impossible to gauge his reaction to anything, and it was possible that he would be angered by these secrets we kept.

"You must leave it with me," I said. "I will try and make arrangements and inform you of the plans when they are ready. I think it will be risky, but I think it can be managed, with your ability."

"Very well," she said with a nod. If she was disappointed that she would not see her husband that night, she did not show it. A taste of freedom, or reconciliation, was all she needed to give her some hope and it was pleasing to see it. Having spent so long around the bleak, it made an uplifting change.

I moved to leave and she followed me. "Tell me," she asked, "why you are doing this? It cannot be merely because you feel like performing an act of rebellion against a regime you are not entirely happy with. A sensible person would just leave their job."

"I wasn't unhappy with it until I came here. I always knew there were faults with our law-enforcement departments, but this is something else. This prison is inhumane." I turned to her and felt suddenly alone, but couldn't understand why. "It saps at your soul and makes you see things clearly. This is not the way to punish people. And it's certainly not a place to sweep things away to when they become uncomfortable for society to deal with. I believe that both you and your husband have been victims of a Ministry that wishes to be right all of the time and will create scapegoats in order to maintain that fallacy. Perhaps in this one act, I can make them see they are not infallible. If you and your husband successfully escape, then they will have to look again at this case. And for all its faults, the _Daily Prophet_ will find this a juicy story and will have another dig at it."

Maeve gave a strange smile, knowing and doubtful. "We shall see, Katherine. Hope is small, but her fire still burns. I'll leave it with you… And give my husband my love when you next see him. Tell him the raven still has her wings."

I nodded, not understanding the message, but knowing that it contained the intimacy of a close bond between two people. It made me feel, once again, very lonely.

After just three hours sleep, I was back on my own corridor and walking with trepidation towards cell sixty-six. Time would wait no longer for him to be told about the fate of his wife. I would need to formulate my campaign that night, a campaign that would not need to depend upon outside help, for I would not know exactly when I would get access to her again. Apparation was impossible from the rock, although with my wand they could create a Portkey, but that would leave a trace, albeit a faint one. I did not think there was a broomstick to be had on the island, and in any case, it would prove too cumbersome. On a broomstick they would be slow-moving targets. There were the tunnels beneath the castle, but they went nowhere and had been the source of many a failed escape attempt in the past. The authorities had kept their little tunnel-trap quiet so that none of the prisoners knew about their lack of a destination.

So what to do? I resolved to discuss it with Professor Snape before I fermented the plan any further.

He looked up eagerly when I entered, and my heart gave a leap of anxiety at what my news would bring to his now resigned mind.

"Good morning, Miss Carr," he said, by way of a greeting. "Your book was, if you will permit me to say so, a good choice. I found the chapter on Time-Turners in the Muggle world particularly fascinating. Only people as dim-witted as they could have such a treasure in their hands and not realise its possibilities." He gave a little snort of derision and slid the book from the folds of his robes towards me. I immediately swapped it for one that I hoped would hint at what was on my mind.

He picked it up and read the black letters along its red spine, his face immediately perplexed. "_Escapology: How to Prevent the Determined Witch or Wizard Succeeding._ Is this a joke of some sort?" He looked at me and there was an almost hurt look on his dark features. "Is this a taunt?"

"Not at all," I replied in an even voice. "It is research for you. I have not read the book myself. I bought it when I learned of my posting here, but I quickly realised on my arrival that if people wanted to escape, then good luck to them."

He still looked baffled by my words, and I steeled myself to deliver him from his ignorance.

"Professor Snape--" I knelt down, my face now lower than his "--there are some things you don't know, important things."

"Oh?" He looked down at me. "And what might they be?"

"It's about your wife."

He was about to move, pushing back against his chair, but I grabbed for his hands and pulled him back, the shock of the contact making him pliant. I could see him preparing to give a free rein some of his anger again and knew I must prevent it.

"Settle down," I instructed. "This is not the time to become excitable. Eamon will be in in an instant if he senses unrest and I must tell you this." His face grew still and he relaxed against the back of his chair, preparing himself for bad news. I kept hold of his hands as I delivered my information.

"Professor Snape, your wife is not dead." I paused to allow his heart to skip a few unruly beats before I continued. "She's here, in Azkaban." I tightened my grip on hands that grew clammy with disbelief. His eyes had a volcanic quality about them that did not bode well for keeping Eamon at bay, but he gathered himself and pulled his hands slowly away from mine.

"This is untrue," he hissed, "and cruelly so. How could you?"

"This is not untrue," I insisted. "She said to tell you that the raven still has her wings."

The volcano inside him lost its heat as his eyes filled with a desperate longing, a painful dagger of loss that was quickly hidden by his self-control. "How long has she been here?" he asked, his voice hoarse with revealing emotion.

"I don't know for sure," I admitted, "but I saw her just a few hours ago and she is bearing up well. She had no idea you thought her dead."

"Why are you telling me this?" he groaned, bringing his hands to his head as if to suppress the knowledge I had just transferred to him. "It will do neither of us any good. She is there and I am here and we must now try and exist knowing the other is close by and yet still untouchable. She might as well be dead."

"You would have had her bear the knowledge alone? She knew about you. The balance is now redressed."

"What can I do?" he asked. It was a question without any real meaning, for he believed that he could do nothing.

"You can read that book," I replied, tapping the scarlet cover with my forefinger.

He looked at me blankly, still not quite understanding the significance of the title that sat on his table. "What are you suggesting?" he asked, looking back at the title and then pressing his lips tightly together. "You are not… escape from Azkaban is not possible."

"Oh, it _is_ possible. A certain member of the Crouch family managed it, as did the notorious Sirius Black. It can be done."

"But the risks," he snapped. "The risks would be too high. It would mean certain death if we were caught. There would be no trial; they would simply dispose of us. I cannot do that to my wife."

"Then we must make sure it is a success. Your wife is more than willing to try. Surely you are a match for her. And what would you rather have for her; a slow, torturous death here?"

"She always was a rash, foolish woman," he spat, but there was a trace of admiring affection in his voice. "But it is impossible. I will not risk her life in this way. The future for her here is uncertain. Unlike me, she may not die here."

"But you already thought her dead," I pointed out, with a sense of mounting excitement that he had reacted better than could have been expected. "So you really have little to lose."

He stood up then, wearied by the discussion, his recently acquired peace of mind shattered. I watched him pace, waiting for him to break the newly-born silence. His face worked against the cold of the cell; trying to come to terms with this new treasure he had been given.

"You are as bad as she," he finally said. "Both of you rush headlong into things without thinking of the consequences, of the danger. You bring me books and now you bring me something I never thought to see again… a decision to be made."

"Then make it," I said. I stood up and moved towards him. "Professor Snape, I am prepared to take risks, and believe me, I am risking a great deal here. But it has become apparent to me that my life is something of a sham. I do not want this." I flapped my hands at the wall. "I want a life filled with something other than sadness and despair. I'm beginning to think all of this darkness becomes a part of you, if you spend long enough here."

He appraised me with calculating eyes for a few moments before speaking again. "And how do you propose to go about this?"

"You wife would transform into me, while I would take her position in that cell. She could come to you, with my wand, and an escape could be effected from there. You are two very intelligent individuals; it would not be beyond you to leave the prison if you had a wand, I'm sure."

"This has possibilities," he mused. "This is much the same way that that young fool Crouch escaped, but we would have no need of Polyjuice Potion. And what would become of you afterwards?"

"I can keep my head down long enough for you to escape. By the time I need to show my face, you both should be long gone. I can make up a story about her overcoming me, stealing my wand. It would make me look incompetent but..." I gave a shrug. "But what does that matter? I will take a leave of absence and not come back."

"And have you thought how we would get away from the fortress?" he asked, his mind already crawling all over the problem. "The normal means would be impossible, surely."

"No Apparition, no Portkey, no Floo and no broomsticks," I said gravely, waiting to see if he would have a rejoinder. He didn't, he simply clasped his hands together and frowned.

"Very well," he said. "Let me think on it. Did you have a time frame in mind?"

"The next time I apply for overtime on that wing I may be assigned to her corridor, so we need to create a plausible plan and then we can put it into practice on the spot."

He nodded. "I understand. Thank you."

It was a gentle dismissal and I gave him an encouraging smile, which was lost on his concentrated mind, and left him to his thoughts.

For the first time since arriving at this ugly, barren place, I felt I was doing something useful. The feeling was a fine one.


	9. Execution

There had been a frisson of excitement ruffling feathers in Azkaban on the day that Professor Snape delivered his plan to me. It seemed we were to have a visitor, none other than the latest incumbent as Minister for Magic, Rupert Filiburton. I had never met the man myself, but I had heard he was as narrow-minded as his predecessor, Scrimgeour. They had made corridor A, on F wing -- the only one they had deemed dour enough for him to visit -- look particularly forbidding. This was not a task that was in any way difficult, given that corridor A was partially exposed to the elements thanks to an over-enthusiastic warder who had blown half a wall away while attempting to prevent an escape. There was so much toadying up going on that the place was beginning to resemble a stagnant pond, and I made sure I was equipped with a good reason not to be near the Minister at any point during his visit.

Professor Snape was aware that we had a visitor, but seemed uninterested in the nature of the visit. I dropped in on him halfway through my shift and found him still studying the book I had loaned him. He looked up briefly and nodded, immediately returning to his perusal of the dry pages. I attended to my meagre duties before approaching him, never sure of his mood or how familiar he would choose to be with me.

I gave a little cough to announce my intentions. "Have you discovered anything of use?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"Everything is of use," he remarked. "It is simply a question of finding the right way to apply something. Azkaban is not impregnable; like everything, it will have its weakness. Once I locate that weakness, we will be able to exploit it."

"And what if we don't find it? I have extensive knowledge of the fortress, and I have yet to see anything that would make it vulnerable to either escape or attack."

"Then you have not been looking hard enough!" There was a snarl to his voice that made me take a step back. I had become unused to such vehemence and it wrong-footed me for a moment. "Forgive me." His words were low and became lost in the pages of the book he was looking at. "That was not called for."

"That's all right," I said, with what I hoped was a soothing tone to my voice. "This is not easy for any of us. I honestly don't know of any weakness within the prison, and there are protections surrounding the island itself."

"And what form do these protections take?" His eyes looked at me keenly. I noticed the new lines that tugged at his skin, fresh evidence of the extra strain that being so close to his wife was putting on him.

"Just the usual repelling charms, nothing fancy. They have an Extended Blocking Charm, to prevent Apparation and Portkeys from working for up to ten miles around. Silly, really, for such a high security gaol. I believe they think that if a prisoner can get off the island then the sea will get him or her before they can get clear of the Blocking Charm."

"And how did the Minister arrive?"

"He arrived via Portkey," I said. "They suspended the Charm for a few minutes to allow him the opportunity to get in."

Professor Snape stood up abruptly, snapping the book closed. "This has been a waste of time," he said. "A complete and utter waste of energy. You had the solution all along. When does this fool of a Minister leave?"

"Tonight, as far as I know. He's having dinner with the governor and then returning to London." I had a vague notion of what he was planning, but didn't see how it would be possible. There would be no way I could get down to his wife's corridor tonight, and for his plan to work, it would have to be tonight.

"Then you need to make the switch with Maeve before he leaves, and give her enough time to get to me and for us to create a Portkey."

"It's not possible," I spluttered. "The overtime lists have been settled and there is no other way for me to get down there. Besides, if you use a Portkey they will be able to trace you. You would be caught before you got very far."

"Not if we used it to get to a remote place and then used Apparation," he insisted.

I sighed and flattened my robes down with anxious hands. "I'm not convinced."

"You don't have to be convinced," he barked, "you just have to do as you're told."

I stood a little taller, refusing to be bullied by him. "We are not in your classroom now, Professor, and I am not one of your pupils. You would do well to remember who still has a wand and who does not." I knew he was under extreme pressure, but I did not want that pressure making him do something rash that he – or I – would later regret.

"If we were in my class, you would have been given several detentions and lost House…" He stopped abruptly and I couldn't fathom why. "But these are fanciful notions. Believe me, this is our best chance of achieving our aim. We must act swiftly and with certainty. There must be a way of getting yourself to my wife's cell tonight."

"And I'm telling you, there is not." I folded stubborn arms across my chest and we locked eyes and wills for a little time. His unwavering gaze made me feel hot and uncomfortable and it was I who broke the contact first. "Very well," I snapped. "I will see what I can do. What do you intend to use for a Portkey?"

"I think that peach pit will serve our purposes in this instance, don't you, Miss Carr?" He raised his hand and pointed to the small, corrugated sphere that sat by the leg of his table. "I will wait for my wife to return, in your guise."

"But this seems such an inadequate way to leave it. You won't know if I have succeeded or not, not until the person who comes to see you tonight opens her mouth. Oh!" I had just thought of another spanner in our plan's fragile works. If I found a way to be on corridor O, then what would I be doing back on my own corridor during that shift?

"What is it?" he asked, concern leaping to his face.

"Nothing," I replied firmly. "I shall take care of things. Let us hope we succeed." I really had no idea how I was going to achieve anything, but I resolved to prove my worth in the professor's eyes.

I had spent a long time thinking about this man, a man I had seen enter this establishment with just one thing on his mind: letting go of a life that had become unbearable. Now he was alive again, and I thanked whatever power had given me the will to help him. With a mixture of emotion, I realised that this could be the last time we met. If he succeeded in escaping, I had no doubt he would leave the country, and even if he didn't, what cause would we have to meet again? I looked into those unnaturally dark eyes and wondered if he would survive our little escapade, wondered if either of them would. When he wasn't consciously guarding his thoughts and feelings from people, his eyes could be considered warm and inviting, as they were now. It was to be a considerable regret of mine that I never saw him outside the prison walls, never saw him as he was with his wife, unfettered and perhaps even a little careless with his emotions.

Was I a little in love with him? I think I must have been. But it wasn't the usual sort of lust and longing, it was born of a profound respect for the man. I would miss him very much.

"Miss Carr, have you been petrified?" I twitched back to reality and realised he was looking at me with a curious expression. "You seem to have lost the ability to move."

"I was just reflecting a little on our relationship." He flinched slightly at the use of the word "relationship," but held on to the flippant comment that was no doubt attempting to escape his mouth. I shifted position slightly, knowing that I should be making a move, and yet I found myself reluctant to turn away.

"Was there something else?" he asked, frowning down his nose in that familiar fashion.

"No, nothing." I snapped back to attention, resisting the urge to snarl at him that a little honesty and a show of feelings wouldn't go amiss. Surely our interaction over the previous weeks had meant something. Surely he wasn't really this cold. Was he like this with his wife? "Goodbye then, Professor Snape."

"Goodbye, Miss Carr." His black-topped head, which Azkaban had begun to streak with grey, inclined in my direction. It was a gesture of sorts, but not the sort I was looking for. His eyes followed me to the door; I could feel them etching a hard pattern on the back of my head. As I inserted the key, I felt a sad little knot of emotion crawl up my throat and I had to bite hard on my lip to keep it down. This might not, after all, be the last time we saw each other; our plan could fail.

The door opened and I stepped right into the puddle of water, the dampness seeping into my shoes.

"Oh, and Miss Carr." He spoke quietly and I turned to look at him, my earlier emotion dampened by the sogginess of my feet. "Please, call me Severus."

And I knew then he had given me all he could without fracturing his unbending desire to maintain a wall around him

"Goodbye, Severus," I smiled, feeling the strange form of address roll off my tongue and into the air. "And good luck. I hope your life is all you would have it be."

He nodded and I closed the door on his clear face and sharp eyes. I kept control all the way down the corridor and managed to prevent any incidence of tears throughout my shift, which lasted for four more tedious hours. I concealed any hint of my weakened resolve from Eamon when he came to relieve me, and I made it all the way to my rooms before allowing a few splashes of water to hit my cheeks. But fortunately, I knew that there were more pressing things than silly tears and emotions. I had to get down to corridor O of D wing somehow, without arousing suspicion. This would be no mean feat. Tucking a hurriedly drawn map into my robes, I left my rooms in search of something to inspire me.

Trying my best to be inconspicuous, I made my way to what served as a staff room and found only a few of my colleagues whiling away the minutes, alternately chatting and lounging. I could feel an ache beginning to throb at my temples caused by taxing my brain too much. Everything I came up with had a disadvantage; any sort of wand work would be traceable, trying to get the guard to leave their spot long enough for me to make the switch would make it obvious that I was in on the plan and simply trying to bluff my way in would immediately make the guard check on my story. This was all too soon and hadn't given me enough time to prepare.

I took a cup of hot pumpkin juice from the counter and paid the young witch – who hovered belligerently behind the serving area – with a Sickle. At least the food was subsidised at Azkaban, unless you had it in your room; they charged you extra for that.

"You all right, Carr?" Luke Pepper was sitting beneath a large Ministry recruiting poster, his feet propped up on the grubby table in front of him. "You look a bit pre-occupied."

"I'm fine, thank you," I said, looking at him briefly. It was difficult not to look at Pepper; his face was probably the most appealing thing in this drear place. "Bit tired, that's all." I didn't really want to be drawn into conversation; not when my mind was firmly on other things.

"You should get some sleep, before they make you work a double shift." He grinned at me and I involuntarily smiled back, wondering why he was suddenly so interested in my welfare. His blonde hair created an appealing halo for what was otherwise a rather devilish face.

"I'm okay. I wouldn't mind the extra work," I added, sowing a few seeds of a plant that may or may not flourish.

"Get yourself down to Corridor Y, then," he said, a smirk creasing his face. "I'll bet the governor needs some help buttering up to that creep of a Minister."

Corridor Y was the euphemism we used for the governor's office. When orders spewed out of it, they were usually greeted with a disdainful "Why?" from the staff.

"I don't do buttering, unless it's bread," I snapped.

"Steady on," he said, good-naturedly. "I was only being sarcastic. No need for the head-biting-off routine."

"'S all right for you lazy buggers." Laurence Cronin struggled up from his prone position on one of the uncomfortable sofas to glower at us. "I've got to do a ruddy extra shift tonight. Didn't even ask me; my name just appeared on the list. I reckon it's that new Automatic Shift Generating spell they're using. Ruddy puts people in that it's got no right putting in. I did five extra shifts last week!"

"You could always get someone to swap a shift with you," Luke suggested.

"You offering?"

"Nope." His light eyes laughed at the burly man.

Laurence turned to me with a hopeful expression on his battle-scarred face. "What about you then?"

"I don't…"

Luke interrupted me before I could finish my answer. "As if she's going to volunteer for a shift on the nightmare that is D wing. Would you volunteer for it?"

"I suppose not," Laurence admitted, with a gloomy grimace. "Still, no harm in asking, is there?" He began to move off towards the door, resignation pressing on his weary shoulders.

"I don't mind," I said, trying to keep my voice as normal as possible, but convinced my words must have erupted from my mouth in a nervous squeal. "I haven't done too many extras this week."

Luke gave a low whistle and regarded me with new-found admiration. "You have a generous heart, Carr," he said in an admiring voice. "Sure as Merlin wouldn't catch me volunteering for that mess. Especially not with the Minister for Magic in the building."

"I don't mind," I said in a bland voice. "I've got some pretty mad people on my ward that should probably be down there anyway." Stop babbling, I told myself, just let Laurence figure this out for you. He wanted the night off so, whatever happened, I would be the innocent just doing a favour for a colleague.

"Really?" Laurence's face brightened and the scar at the corner of his mouth stretched with the smile he gave. "You're going to take my shift?"

"You figure out how to get your name off the list and mine on it without anyone finding out, and I'll do it. As long as you take the blame if they find out."

"Not a problem." His mouth widened even further and revealed uneven, grey teeth. "Done it a few times. That's the other thing with automated shifts… they have no idea who's supposed to be where. I'll get it sorted out and when you give the guard your number, the shift sheet will be just waiting for you."

"Well, if you're sure we won't get into trouble? I've never done this before." I looked to Luke for a bit of reassurance and he nodded sagely.

"Done it myself once or twice," he said with a sly look. "Laurence will see that you're safe from the prying eyes of the powers that be."

I gave him my best grateful look and looked back to Laurence.

"You have the eight o'clock shift?"

"That's right. I'll sort out the schedule now and you have half an hour before you're due down there." He looked doubtful again. "You sure this is all right?"

"Really sure," I insisted. "I'll grab another juice and be down in time to cover you."

Luke looked rather pleased and shuffled up on the sofa. "Take the weight off your feet," he offered, and I found myself unable to refuse.

The walls pressed in on me as I finally made my way down to try and put this plan into action while there was still time. Of course, it could still fail. I might not be put on the right corridor, but if I was at least on the wing, I would be in a better position to work something out. The Minister was due to leave at nine-thirty precisely so I had to have her out of there by then. I approached the guard on duty, another one I didn't know, and gave him my number, coughing to clear my dry throat.

"Don't you be getting sick on my watch," he said, his manner gruff. The door swung open to allow me in. "Because you won't be leaving this wing for the next eight hours, ill or not. Corridor O, you know where it is?"

My blood froze on my veins as I nodded, the triumph of being on the right corridor engulfed by a sudden dread. How could I not have thought of that? I could get in, but how was I supposed to get out again before my shift ended? This was a disaster – a complete disaster – and it was all my fault. As I made my way blindly to her cell, I had no idea how I was going to break this news to her.

She was much as I had left her the last time: huddled in the corner, her face turned away from the door. She shifted slightly as I closed the door firmly behind me, and I hesitated before alerting her to my presence. I had received the impression, from her husband, that she was an intelligent woman, so what would she make of my ineptitude?

"Mrs Snape," I whispered into the gloom.

She was immediately on her feet, dulled hair falling free from the trappings of her tatty robes. Her eyes lit the room, and I found myself feeling even more shame-faced over my abject failure.

"Is it time?" she asked, stepping towards me. "Katherine? What is it?"

The woman was in possession of a fine sense of intuition, I'll grant her that. I swallowed hard and tried to weigh up how she would take the news, but she was impatient and insisted I spit it out. I related what her husband and I had planned, including all the details about the visitor and the dropping of the barriers. Her face was alive with promise until I informed her there were two very large buts.

"I – or rather you – will not be able to leave the corridor until the end of my shift, by which time it will be too late and the Minister will have gone." I looked towards the stone floor, feeling as grey as the rough material at my feet. "And it would be difficult for you – or me – to get back onto my own corridor because my shift finished a few hours ago. So we almost made it, but I forgot about a few things. I'm so sorry."

"So," she began, her voice sweeter than I would have imagined given the news I had just imparted, "you are telling me the only impediment to this plan is our inability to move through the prison because we are not supposed to be anywhere else but here?"

There was a smile on her face as she said this, a smile that made my heart warmer, despite our terrible predicament. "Yes," I admitted, pulling the map from my pocket. "I even made this, useless now, of course."

She took the folded parchment and smiled, her face subtly changing. I opened my mouth in surprise as the bedraggled woman slowly disappeared, to be replaced with what I at first thought was a mirror, until the woman in it laughed and shattered the illusion. "You must have seen a Metamorphmagus at work before," she said.

"I have," I replied, "but never one that was me."

"Katherine Carr, thank you for everything you have done. May I have your wand?"

I handed it to her without question.

"Now, perhaps we should change robes?" She did not seem remotely perturbed by my admissions of failure and so we exchanged clothes. I stepped into her dirt-encrusted ones and it felt like stepping into the soul of a prisoner. I was instantly at a disadvantage and it was not pleasant.

"Well now, it is time to part. Without you this could not have been achieved, so you have my gratitude."

"But it's not…" I tried to protest but she placed a finger to my lips.

"It is not for nothing I come from ancient Irish stock. My father has bestowed upon me a rather useful gift that my kind shares. You have done more than enough in delivering your wand to me, and giving me the location of my husband."

"I don't understand."

"You will, Katherine. But for now, good bye."

And with that the air around her shifted slightly. At first I thought it was a trick of the dim light, but then her edges began to blur against the very border of what was real. It appeared that parts of her were slipping away, slipping into the atmosphere that surrounded us. Just a few seconds after it had begun, she was gone, leaving me to stare at the place she had been in disbelief. What sort of magic was this?

I shuddered into the corner, vulnerable and cold, but strangely hopeful. She could have got out all this time and yet she stayed. She stayed where her husband was. Perhaps I would never really know why, but it was enough to know she was on her way to him now.

Secure in the knowledge that I could do nothing else, I allowed my eyes to close and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. What tale I would tell would come to me when I was faced with the questions?


	10. Aftermath

There is a point, just as you come out of the woods and catch sight of the scarred patch of earth that sits in the bowl of land before you, where you can almost see our hiding place. The earth is disturbed ever so slightly, a scar on a scar. It's even worse when the sun shines, as it's doing today. Not that people ever find their way onto the land by accident; the Fidelius Charm we have placed on the estate makes sure of that. Remus is the Secret Keeper and we know that we can trust him with our safety. The Ministry came sniffing around when we first escaped, poking their inadequate noses into the place, Hit Wizards shrugging at the emptiness of what used to be my family home. I looked for Katherine, but didn't see her; it was only later I found out what had happened to the woman who saved us.

You know me, but I suppose you don't really know me. I'm Maeve, Maeve Snape, formerly O'Malley. This was my family's land – is my family's land, because it now belongs to me. I swore I would never live in the house again, but the house is gone, and I'm trying my best to pretend that the cellars don't count. This is a temporary measure. We have to believe that or we may go quietly insane. Still, this isn't as bad as Azkaban. We are our own masters, and can sleep, wake, eat, and anything else that we have a mind to, when we want. The cellars that lie beneath the burnt land are not as cold as you would imagine, but they have a tendency to dampness. Katherine's wand has long since been destroyed, replaced by two that Remus managed to purloin for us. They work, but not as well as our own would.

I like to come and sit in the forest. This is the part of the estate that I always loved, mainly because it was the only place I could be alone. The ravens that used to live here are long gone; they keep watch over our marital home at Rathgael, not that we will be returning there in the foreseeable future. Remus is doing is best to gather evidence on our behalf, but we both know he could be fighting a losing battle. They will not take the evidence of a portrait, so it doesn't mater what Dumbledore says. Narcissa is the only one who could speak in our defence and carry a shred of credibility, and she is keeping her well-bred mouth firmly closed. I rather think she is afraid to jeopardise her position and her lifestyle, which is funded by the new Minister for Magic, Herbert Prymm, with whom she has a relationship of sorts. The previous Minister lost his job because of us, a fact I am rather proud of. My old friend Roderick Rampton believes that he can persuade the Irish Ministry to intervene. He seems to think that because I am an Irish citizen, and Severus is my husband, they will fight our forcible return to England. He has a point. The Irish and British Ministries have an uncomfortable alliance at the best of times. Perhaps Roderick's silver tongue will work wonders, but I'm not counting on it.

The wind is soft today, the first gentle voice of spring whispering through the trees. We have been here for over three months now, eking out our food from a land only just waking from its long winter's rest. But there is comfort in living alongside a land that we often forget about, something satisfying in procuring your own food. I should have known that Severus would prove to be an adept hunter, using his wand only when absolutely necessary. He has gone into the forest early to try and capture a few hares. We had pheasant yesterday, but the rich meat upset my stomach and I was sick as a dog last night.

Azkaban has aged him somewhat. I say that, but I expect it has aged me too; not that he would ever comment upon the extra lines around my eyes. His hair is slightly streaked with the first tiny rivers of grey now, far earlier than normal for a wizard. The most marked difference is his attitude to life. No, don't misunderstand me. Severus hasn't suddenly become a happy man, with a ready smile and a joyful appreciation of anything and everything. If anything, he has become more thoughtful, more contemplative. It's subtle, but it's there. It's almost as if Azkaban kept a little of the hardness that was his natural state, and has left him with a better understanding of who he is and of his place in the world. There is no bitterness now, no rancour; we are, bizarrely, given our situation, happier than we have ever been. But perhaps there are other reasons for that.

The escape from Azkaban proved to be easier than we could have ever hoped, but it would have been impossible without Katherine's help. Without her wand to make the Portkey, and without her information about the Minister's visit, we would be there still. I had to be quick, once I left my cell. It is difficult to ride the air and find something when you are not sure of its exact location. It was necessary for me to drift along the corridor and follow the route I could remember from when I had been brought here. It is hard to describe what I feel when I am on the air, or how I navigate, but I sense things. I know what is right and not right. I felt my way through the coldness of the prison, my very molecules shivering in the dampness. It was as if my very soul was naked to the pure malice that leeched from the prison walls. After ten minutes of this, I knew I needed to re-form and consult the map again. It would risk someone catching sight of me, but I had to trust to my senses not to let me down.

I chose the coldest, deepest stream of air and followed it for a little while, until it felt safe to materialise. It was dark here, and I didn't want to risk using Katherine's wand until I had to. I wandered down the corridor a little way, sidestepping pools of murky liquid that had formed out of the foulness dripping from the ceilings. The faint light at the end of this corridor allowed me to look at the map once again and try to get my bearings. Given the direction I had travelled, I was able to plot, roughly, where I was, and to my relief I discovered that Severus' cell was directly above me. If I could find a gap in the stonework, I would be there in seconds.

"What are you doing down here?"

I hurriedly stuffed the map in my pockets – in Katherine's pockets – and tried a winning smile. "I was" -- my eyes drifted past him and I could see the sign on the wall, a rather fancy sign, for Azkaban. In green letters it said "Governors' Office" and was pointing behind me -- "coming back from running an errand for the Governor." My eyes immediately flicked back to him. "I wouldn't disturb them, if I were you. They're just discussing prison reform, and you know what a Dragon's Wart of a problem that is."

"Erm... yeah… but how did you get past me? I was up at the head of the corridor and didn't see you with them when they came down." He looked a little flustered, but not half as flustered as I felt.

As my neck grew hot, I heard a door grind open from the end of the corridor behind me. I turned urgent eyes to the man who had discovered me and put an edge of urgency into my voice that I did not have to try too hard to conjure up.

"Quick… you really do not want to get under the Governor's feet. He'll have anyone that upsets this visit. I have to go, excuse me." I side-stepped him and hurried out onto the main corridor. "What are you waiting for?" I hissed, eager to keep up my pretence. "I should be gone by now. Come and let me out." I had to go out at his bidding, or he would be instantly suspicious and might mention something to the Governor, not that he looked the sort to challenge authority, but you can't be too careful.

It appeared that Katherine had a face that was to be believed, because the guard moved more quickly than I did. He rushed up the corridor and slipped his key into an ancient gate that slid open smoothly. "Go on then," he said, nodding up the corridor. "They're meant to be leaving at eight and it's ten to now, so they'll be in a rush."

"I know," I replied, making my voice light. "Be glad when it's all over." And with a roll of my eyes I was off. As soon as I turned the corner and was visible to no one, I once again floated into the air, feeling the thrill of my body dissolve into the atmosphere. I had no time, no time at all, and I drifted upwards, searching for that elusive crack that would give me access to my husband.

I felt him; felt the change in the air as I moved upwards. I can't explain it fully, not without diminishing the power of the sensation, but as I left the current and became a body once more, I saw his figure opposite me, appraising me.

The word, when it came, was a hushed prayer, and I felt the full force of the love that I always knew he felt for me.

"Maeve?"

I nodded, too flooded with the power that was contained in his eyes to speak. As I changed from Katherine back to myself, I felt quick, hot tears erupt onto my cheeks. Within seconds I was enfolded by arms that were so familiar, and yet, they had become so distant. My fingers clutched at the rough, dirty fabric of his robes, not wanting to release them for fear of losing him again. Ever the more practical one, he pushed me away gently and looked at me with such tenderness that I felt my heart collapse into itself.

"We have no time for this now," he insisted. "Do you have her wand?"

He didn't speak Katherine's name and I knew him well enough to realise he was suffering some form of loss, but I pulled the wand from my pocket and handed it to him. "The Minister leaves at eight," he said, and I noticed that his voice had become rougher, harder, during his time here, like the very walls that confined us.

"It is almost eight," I said urgently. "What are we using for a Portkey?"

"This." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, round object that I recognised as a peach pit.

"Your rations are more generous here than on my corridor."

He looked at me with sadness, nodding mutely. "They were indeed." He placed the pit on the table and hesitated. "We must not give them time to recognise the magic," he explained, and I nodded my agreement. If they traced the spell, someone would be here in minutes. We only had minutes.

I watched his lips, lips that had touched mine many times, count the seconds silently. Time doubled itself, or so it seemed, and I felt my hand reach for his arm, unable to resist touching what I had been kept apart from for so long.

"_Portus!_"

I watched the familiar glow, as the peach pit rose with the spell, before falling back to the table.

"It's time," he said, removing my hand from the sleeve of his robe and curling strong fingers around it. "Let's go."

With our fingers conjoined, he reached for the pit and I prepared myself for the pull of the spell to take us.

Nothing happened.

"What is it?" I hissed, looking to him for an explanation, feeling that the worst was about to happen and the escape would fail.

"It will be all right," he said, his voice still hard. "We were a little early." Again he reached for it, and again nothing happened.

"Severus?" Panic fired my stomach into performing leaps of anxiety.

"I said, it will be all right." There was no fear in his voice. He took his attention off the Portkey long enough to look at me, and in those few seconds between his glance and the cell door opening with a roar or alarm, I knew it would be.

The light is starting to fade. I have no idea how long I have been here, but it must be approaching six. Severus has not returned yet, but he will, bearing food and a slow smile for me. I would have thought the lack of mental activity would have driven him to distraction, but he seems to be calmer, less driven. Remus has brought books and candles, and everything else we have requested of him. He's such a good man, a staunch ally.

So, we escaped. Severus Charmed the Portkey to take us to South Wales, from where we Disapparated to Holyhead. From there, Severus had begun to formulate a plan that involved stealing money and hiring a boat, which, for Severus, was a little convoluted. I hushed his ramblings, a thought already forming. I had never tried it before, didn't even know if it was possible, but there might be one way for us to cross the Irish Sea unnoticed. Severus was deeply sceptical, not trusting things he didn't understand, until I pointed out that he didn't understand love and yet he still felt its effects.

He grudgingly succumbed to being wrapped into my arms, his face just inches from my own. I brushed his lips before concentrating all my energy on what needed to be done. It was hard, possibly the hardest thing I have ever had to do physically. Taking to the air alone is something of an effort, but taking another person, buoying their molecules with your own, was utterly exhausting. We had to drop down on to the Isle of Man for an hour, a detour we could well have done without, but I couldn't have managed the trip without a break to regroup my strength. We made it eventually. We had to make it.

I brought us down on the coast just south of Dun Laoghaire, and Severus refused to ever travel that way again, even if his life depended on it. I raised my eyebrow at the irony of what he had just said, but accepted that he would prefer to walk. I suggested we just Apparate to Abbeylara, but it seemed that Severus had recovered his senses after the ridiculous suggestion of stealing a boat. He told me I must be mad to even think of Apparating blindly anywhere now, not with the Ministry after our blood. Abbeylara would be the first place they would look, after our other home at Rathgael.

So, from this location, we would have a good trek down to Wicklow, our final destination. We slept that night in a barn on the outskirts of a small village. Dogs barked and owls swept low, but no Muggles disturbed us. We kept ourselves warm, body heat effective beneath the straw. Dawn brought with it rain and a sharp wind blowing from sea, but we set off on foot, keeping away from the main roads and navigating by sheer willpower. Severus had initially shown a touching faith in the accuracy of the signposts, but after coming across one that indicated the place we had just come from was, in fact, ten miles further down the road, he gave up reading them. I read them, though. Their familiar names washed over me, along with the cooling rain. As we passed into Wicklow, the rain softened into a fine drizzle and walking became easier. Time passed quickly, despite our slow progress, and we slept another night in a barn. Had we not been using such a roundabout route, we would have been there by now, but back lanes had added hours onto the journey.

The following morning was dry, and we were able to enjoy the budding Irish countryside. We would arrive at Abbeylara in an hour or so, and we knew we must do so carefully. Our caution was well-founded. When we crept in, under cover of the forest that bounded the estate, we discovered the Hit Wizards fretting over the place where the house had once stood, before it had burned to the ground. They soon left, however, and we were able to gain access to the cellars and our new home.

So that's it, really. The story told in full. Except for Katherine. Remus brought us the story of what happened to her, and it didn't surprise me. She was discovered, and by all accounts gave a stunning performance of the overpowered gaoler. They generously gave her a whole week off to recover, but once she'd got off the island; she didn't go back and resigned her position, claiming stress as the reason for her departure. She's working with released prisoners now, helping them adjust to their new lives. Azkaban sets free people so damaged by their stay there that she has her work cut out for her. Remus has joined her; his long years as a werewolf giving him an excellent insight into what it is to be alienated from society. I admire their selflessness. Severus doesn't speak of her much. I think she saw him at his most vulnerable, and I'm not sure he can forgive himself – or her – for that. Remus also says she is seeing someone, a fellow gaoler who was sacked shortly after she left for fiddling the rota system. I never met him during my time there. Luke Pepper, his name is. I wish them luck.

And that just leaves us, and our future. Whatever it is, it will be together. He's here now, with a brace of hares for me to skin and cook. I think he may have to skin them for me. I'm not sure my poor stomach is up to it. Magic has its uses, but we go without, when we can. These wands are sometimes unpredictable, and one set fire to a chair in the cellar. The last thing we need is an underground fire driving us out of the one home we have left.

He's bending his head to kiss me now, and his hand drops subconsciously to my stomach. There is only a slight swell beneath my robes, so slight as to almost not be there. But we know it is there. We know that the child conceived in a barn on the outskirts of Dun Laoghaire is growing and will be with us by the end of the summer. I hope that we will be free of this existence by then; the idea of bringing a child up in these dank cellars fills me with horror. Perhaps I will have to appeal to my father for his help if all else fails. This is not how I would have wished to start a family, but life is not all we would wish it to be. I don't know what sort of father Severus will be, nor do I know what sort of mother I will make. This child will be born with the heavy weight of our own problems around its neck, but it will be loved. I haven't told Remus yet, and I wonder what his reaction will be. I think he would make a fine godfather for the baby.

Let's hope the gods are smiling on us now. We need all the help we can get.


End file.
